“Let me get this straight. Alida represents models. She also represents Avery, a fashion designer. Is there a conflict of interest?”
“Not if Avery’s aware of it.”
“If these male models worked for Avery, and Alida represents them, she could have placed them with the congressmen’s fundraiser too.”
“That’s a big if,” Blade reminded him. “Even if the models attended the parties, there’s no evidence they were murdered. They might have binged too much and overdosed.”
“It’s suspicious. I’ll want to study the photos again and the crime scene report.”
“Just because the models walked for Avery doesn’t mean a connection,” Blade said.
“How about the man in the painting I found at Ivanna’s? Doesn’t he resemble one of the dead men?”
“On the surface, it resembles Garm Guillory,” Blade confirmed. “But there aren’t any tattoos on the shoulders.”
“It’s art,” Jason replied. “She might have painted over them, and it’s unfinished.”
“It also depends on how close she is to realism,” Blade said. “I don’t think it’ll hold up in a court of law. She could have copied the facial features from a photograph.”
“Or used his brother as a model,” Jason finished the thought. “I caught Saul Guillory inside Avery’s apartment a few minutes back. They both appeared anxious when I showed up.”
“Wonder if he’s her dealer,” Blade mumbled. “You’ve been with her. Any signs of drug use?”
“Wasn’t with her long enough,” Jason said. “She does seem jumpy at times, and other times, she’s confident. She’s operating her business normally, so if she’s a user, it’s occasional and used to suppress appetite or focus on her job.”
He wasn’t going to let his partner in on the wild sex. Had Avery taken meth before going down on him? The entire episode felt out of character for her, as if she’d flipped on a switch and regretted it the next morning—hence the ice-cold shoulder.
She was not a regular user because her teeth were too beautiful. He’d been too excited to check for needle marks and bruising, but she was unlikely to be injecting meth, since the high would be intense and drop off faster than snorting or swallowing.
The next time he got her in bed, he’d better be in control enough to observe her responses. Meth would enhance her orgasms, cause her heartbeat to race and her blood pressure to soar. She could turn argumentative, aggressive, and much more daring in the activities she’d engage in.
Bottom line. He’d been too carried away with his feelings and emotions that he hadn’t been investigating. What a dereliction of duty.
He walked around her apartment, cataloging her personal possessions and the items she had on display. Her style was tasteful for a fashion designer. Nothing wild or modern. The furniture was traditional and comfy, with a pair of wingback chairs near the window and a drafting table in front of the window.
She’d deflected his question about her design notebook, making him doubly curious about the contents. Since she was busy in the bathroom, he flipped through it, page by page.
Some of the drawings were detailed and others were mere doodles. She’d put thought bubbles over the models to portray what emotion she tried to evoke. Some of the comments were offhand and others had an edge of humor.
For example, a stick figure model draped in what looked like a feathered headdress had a droll remark. “Do I look like I’m a birdbrain to you?”
Another one with a ridge of quills protruding from his forehead had a thought bubble. “Prickly, especially before coffee.”
What was her obsession with animals? He wondered at the muscular half-man, half-horse figure with the long flowing mane and the fringed loincloth. She certainly had a wild imagination.
A man with a forked tongue had a row of fins over his eyebrows and a set of reptilian scaly arms like the ones he saw at Ivanna’s apartment. Another one resembled Matt Swanson. He had bold features, a cleft chin, and instead of a human nose, he had a beak like a hawk. The clothes were classic suit, tweeds, pants, very twentieth century, but the face had a sharp, piercing quality to it—like looking into the eyes of a bird of prey.
What was interesting were the accessories he’d combed through at Ivanna’s place. Some of them were lifted directly out of the sketchbook, whereas others seemed more theatrical than suited for the runway—although these days, the fashion shows were full of outlandish displays of attention catching “art.”
He heard the tap turn off and was about to shut the book when he skipped to the page bookmarked by a charcoal pencil.
The face was his, but the hair was like that of a porcupine, stiff and erect, with each tip sharp like a dart. The thought bubble above his head read, “Poke me at your own peril.”
He chuckled at her sense of humor. How well she’d captured his essence. He should have T-shirts made.
The sound of the doorknob had him dropping the cover. He turned ninety degrees to admire a piece of African art mounted on the wall—a colorful geometric mask towered with a dense fringe of upright feathers.
“Hey, you ready to go?” he asked without looking at her.
“I caught you looking through my sketchbook,” she said. “I knew you’d be nosy.”
Since he was caught, he grinned and poked her shoulder with his index finger.
She swatted his hand aside. “Did you know porcupine quills are barbed so they pierce easily but are hard to withdraw?”
“At your peril,” he answered. “I poke and don’t withdraw.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Popo’s might be a tiny hole in the wall, but it has a big heart,” Jason said to Avery as he found a parking spot not far from Ivanna’s neighborhood.
“How does one measure the heart of a restaurant?” She made an exaggerated smirk to counter his know-it-all-ness. How mortifying was it to have him know she’d been doodling him right before he’d come over? Prickly pear or prickly peril that he was.
Why was he always the expert making judgments, as if he were the authority? Then again, the way Jason steered her body toward the storefront lodged between two larger buildings was firm and protective in a way she craved.
Inherently, he cared about her safety. He always put his body between her and the curb or any stranger walking by.
“You’re an artist; you should know.” He opened a brightly painted but dented and dinged turquoise door.
“Explosions of color.” Avery gasped at the clashes of fire-engine red, rich-cobalt blue, school-bus yellow, and jungle-parrot green of the gaily painted benches, chairs, and tables over a patchwork tile floor. The walls were spray-tan orange and decorated with indigenous fabrics and capes. Each picnic-style table sported a large jar of fresh flowers.
“Señor Jason!” A wizened-faced woman with thin wispy strands of gray hair sticking out from her pink bandana appeared from the kitchen. “Do you have a tip for Popo?”
“A tip and a hug.” Jason enfolded the older woman into his arms. “Brought my best girl for you to stuff full.”
“Your only girl.” Popo giggled and turned her gap-toothed smile at Avery. “My, but you are a beauty. Are you a suspect in one of those crimes he’s always investigating?”
“Popo!” Jason exclaimed in mock indignation. “Avery Cockburn is my girl. Nothing to do with any crimes.”
“Oh, and here I thought she stole your big heart.” Popo held out her hands for a hug. “Nice to meet you, Avery.”
“Pleased to meet you, too,” Avery said. “I’ll tell you a secret.”
Popo propped her ear close to Avery so she could whisper.
“He keeps that heart of his too well-guarded for a common thief.”
“Aye, but you’re no common thief.” Popo’s smile glinted knowingly. She picked up a pair of raggedy menus and led them to a corner table. “Jason’s favorite perch.”
“Where I can watch everyone coming and going,” Jason said, taking Avery’s hand and giving
it a squeeze. He didn’t seem taken aback by her accusation of his imprisoned or bank-vaulted heart.
For the next hour, Avery and Jason quaffed horchata, a sweet, milky, non-dairy drink made of ground rice and ground morro seeds while sampling the various pupusas Popo put in front of them.
Balls of dough, made of masa, or ground corn flour, were stuffed with pureed beans, cheese, pork, or chicken. The ball was closed up in the back and flattened by hand into cakes. The pupusas were grilled, resulting in a delicious mixture of flavors melted together on the inside and crunchy on the outside.
“Each one is made with love,” Popo said, hovering over their shoulders. The pupusas were served with a crunchy slaw of cabbage, carrot, and onion dressed with spices and cider vinegar.
“Try them all,” Jason urged, smiling at Avery like he was a proud papa of a daring child.
“They’re all so good.” Avery licked her fingers and hummed long and low at the bite of chicharron and plantain filled pupusa. “I’ve never tasted something that goes together so well. Savory and sweet with a touch of spice.”
“Just like the two of you,” Popo said, evidently intent on being a matchmaker. “And from the sounds you’re making, I’m betting there’s more than enough heat for the night.”
She winked and nudged Jason who at least had the grace to blush.
“Avery’s a real professional, er, I mean, a professional fashion designer.” Jason stumbled over his words. “We’re going to look over the choreography of her upcoming show.”
“The Manhattan Fashion Week?” Popo put down the pitcher of horchata she was pouring and clasped her hands together. “It’s the grandest show on earth. All those colors and styles. I love fashion shows. Do you think you can get me a pass, Jasonlito?”
He tipped an eyebrow at Avery. “She’s the boss.”
“I might be able to come up with one if you don’t mind sitting next to an overeager photographer,” Avery said.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll stay still. I only want to experience the sights, sounds, and tastes. My sister’s dear boy worked as a model on the side. I remember the day he was picked to walk in Manhattan Fashion Week. He was so excited. It was such an honor. I’d love to go to the show this year.”
“Is he walking this year? Which label?” Avery asked, reaching into her purse for a pass.
The woman’s eyes turned down. “My nephew disappeared last year after the show. He gave us tickets but stood us up, and then he fell off a yacht and died.”
“Oh, my, that’s horrible,” Avery said while Jason drew in a sharp breath and asked, “Last summer? In the East River?”
Popo nodded. “Sadly, yes. We didn’t even know he’d died until much later when they found his body.”
“I’m so sorry,” Avery said. “What was his name?”
“José Perez, but his model brand was Draco.”
“Dragon,” Jason muttered, seemingly turning things in his mind. “Did he know Garm and Hugh?”
“Yes, my Joselito knew them,” Popo said. “They were good boys. Keeping in shape and working out. They called themselves the Brooklyn Babes.”
“I knew a model named Garm,” Avery said. “He hasn’t been showing up on the agent’s roll call.”
“Garm Guillory was Saul’s brother,” Jason said abruptly.
“Wait a minute.” Avery narrowed her gaze at the detective. “Saul never told me he had a brother, but you knew? Is Garm one of the suspects you’ve been investigating? Is this why you brought me to Popo’s? To see if she recognizes me?”
“Hold on there before accusing me.” Jason put both hands up. “I brought you here for Popo’s pupusas.”
“Jason didn’t know Joselito was a model,” Popo said, jumping to Jason’s defense. “I never brought it up because he never brought a beautiful female model for my pupusas.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Always trying to charm on behalf of Jasonlito.
“Trust me,” Jason said. “If I knew Joselito was connected to Garm Guillory and Hugh Longshanks, I would have been here a year ago.”
A spike of anxiety shot through Avery. Longshanks. She’d used him before too, not that she wanted anyone to know in what capacity.
“What are you investigating?” Popo asked, her brow creased and wrinkled. “What did the boys do?”
Jason’s Adam’s apple bobbled, and he appeared to be composing himself. “You might want to grab a chair.”
“No time. Tell me quick.” Popo made hand signs to her assistant cook. “What happened?”
Jason cleared his throat and looked grim. “Garm and Hugh died of overdoses. Not together, but on separate occasions. I’m investigating them as suspicious deaths because they were found close to parties thrown by someone I’m investigating. If Joselito fell off a yacht, and he knew these other two, he might be the third model we never got an ID on.”
“We wouldn’t have known except for the dental records. The police said it was an accident.” Popo wrung her hands. “Are you saying there might have been foul play?”
“They all had drugs in their systems. Meth.”
Avery’s mouth went dry, and her pulse quickened. What kind of parties was Jason investigating? Was he implying something happened at a fashion show after-party? The kind where celebrities mixed with designers to seal deals and exclusives? Those were networking gatherings where everyone was busy preening, posing, and pitching. She didn’t attend the one from last year’s show because of Brando’s death, even though she heard from Alida that it had still happened.
“No, no. I don’t believe it.” Popo blinked rapidly, and her mouth pressed to a thin line. “Those boys were too into health to be taking drugs. They cared too much about their looks to take meth. Have you seen what it does to a person’s looks?”
“Maybe it was their first and last time,” Jason said gravely.
Popo wiped sweat from her forehead and glanced at the other customers. “I have to go now, but Jasonlito, you’ll be back. I have much to talk about. I never believed the coroner’s report. Do you think someone killed them?”
Jason put his finger to his lips. “The cases are officially closed. Ruled accidental. I’ll come back tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, please. My sister is too distraught to talk about it, but I am willing to do whatever I can to see justice done.”
“So am I,” Jason said. “But we have to proceed carefully. Not let them know we’re onto them.”
“Onto who?” Avery interrupted. “Is it someone I know?”
“Possibly.”
“And?”
Jason made a zipping motion across his lips, and Popo wisely retreated to the kitchen.
“You’re not going to tell me?” Avery jiggled his arm. “Why not?”
“You’re safer in the dark.” He pulled out his wallet and left several large bills on the table.
“You can’t keep me in the dark forever,” Avery protested.
“Then you have to open your life to me like a book and trust me one hundred percent.” He held out his hand.
“No. You don’t get to decide whether I’m safer in the dark or not. You don’t get to dictate whether I trust you or not. You don’t get to march into my life and open me like a book.”
He made a motion of opening a book and grinned. “Watch me.”
Somehow, that was so hot and so suggestive, she almost incinerated. How was he able to make her picture his smirk between her open legs?
Slapping that thought shut, she said, “Take me home. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
Chapter Thirty
Jason could read Avery like a book. Literally.
When he made his arrogant remark, she’d frowned and pouted, crossing her arms with her hackles up, and she’d gotten seriously aroused.
As expected, she turned up her nose away from him, barked an order, and pretended he didn’t exist.
He waved goodbye to Popo and made a gesture with his hand indicating he’d call her later. By the time he hit the
sidewalk, Avery was walking toward Ivanna’s brownstone.
Since parking spots were hard to find, and the evening was warm enough for a stroll, he tagged along after her.
She took out her phone and called someone. There was no answer, because she tapped in another number.
He followed her close enough to catch bits of her conversation, but far enough so his shadow wouldn’t catch her eye.
“How did the surgery go?”
“Is she out of danger?”
“How long will she be unconscious?”
“Should I come see her?”
With a troubled look overshadowing her face. She swiped off from the call and put her phone in her purse.
Jason caught up with her. “Bad news?”
“They’re keeping Ivanna in a medically induced coma to reduce the swelling in her brain,” Avery said. “Did you find out anything about the mugging?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Jason said. “I went to her apartment and spoke to the supervisor. They don’t have video monitoring, and he says he didn’t see anyone suspicious.”
“In other words, you didn’t find anything useful,” she said.
“No, I didn’t, but I took pictures of what was there, and I snooped around a bit.” He held out his hand for her to take, but she refused. “If you come to my place, I’ll show you what I found in the dumpster.”
“What kind of lame line is that?” Avery snickered with disdain. “Really, Officer Burnett, I find you very unprofessional.”
“And I find you extremely provocative.”
“Not interested.”
“Fine by me. Guess you’ll never know what I found,” he said. “Shall I drop you off at your place as you requested?”
“That would be best. And no, you’re not going to invite yourself in.”
“Not planning to. I’ve got clues to dig into at my place.”
“And I have a lot of work to do,” Avery said. “With Ivanna out, I have to finish up the accessories and contact the models for their final fitting.”
“Don’t you also have to decide what I’m wearing for the private show? Take measurements? All that? Do I get to wear turnout pants, or are you going for another theme this year?”
Triggered by Love Page 21
