“Let me make that determination.” He tapped the sofa’s arm with his pen. “We need to talk about your relationship with the Leach family. All of it.”
Avery’s throat tightened, and her hand formed a fist in front of neck. “None of them would hurt Ivanna. She’s an artist and does sketches for the professor. I mean, she’s not someone who’d threaten them.”
Jason opened his backpack and extracted the evidence bag with Ivanna’s notebook. “This should be a treasure trove for the detectives. If they’re into anything illegal or she’s blackmailing them.”
“Those notes might be the costs of whatever costume or mask she’s making for them.”
Jason leaned back on the sofa and stretched, cracking his shoulder joints. “Make me that coffee, because we’re in for a long night. You’re going to give me an infodump on everyone you know connected with Ivanna.”
“How do we know they had anything to do with it?”
Jason fixed her with his classic pinning stare. “That’s what we aim to find out and eliminate.”
Her knees weak, Avery pushed off the sofa and tried not to wobble as she made her way to the kitchen. She felt like she was going around in circles.
If she hadn’t volunteered that she knew Harvey Leach, Jason would have dropped her off and gone on to do his own investigations.
Except he had Ivanna’s notebook, and Avery had to stick to him and monitor who he was suspecting or questioning. One thing her father taught them was to keep friends close, but frenemies even closer. Jason wasn’t an enemy. Not in the classical sense, but his investigation was way overboard, like throwing napalm instead of a surgical strike.
He could hit on any number of irrelevant secrets.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Jason wasn’t a guy who wore kid gloves, but Avery was on shaky ground. She was holding something back and discrediting Harvey’s testimony before he’d even begun questioning.
He followed Avery into the kitchen and brewed the coffee, sorry that he’d been too bossy, as usual.
But he kept up the interrogation. “Since Harvey isn’t a reliable witness, I’d like you to tell me everything you know about the Leach family and how Ivanna came to know them.”
He stirred sugar and cream into her coffee, brought the mugs back to the living room, adjusted the throw pillows for her, and dimmed the lights. He didn’t want to appear too eager, and he especially didn’t want to let on that the man in the painting resembled the man who had tried to run Avery down.
If Avery also suspected Harvey, why hadn’t she come clean? Her statement had been she hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver.
Could Harvey know something she wanted to hide?
Or could it be Ivanna who was blackmailing Avery—maybe not overtly. A blackmailer wasn’t selective on where her payday came from.
“What does Ivanna do besides outfit models with accessories and herd them for the show?”
For the next fifteen minutes, Jason scribbled as fast as he could while Avery told him the background.
Professor Orson Leach had been her father, General Daniel Cockburn’s best friend growing up. The two families were close in the early years of Avery’s life, but lately, with her father’s decision to go into politics, they found themselves on opposite sides in every issue ranging from gun control to abortion to foreign policy.
Avery had gone into modeling at sixteen, but when she aged out around twenty-two, she’d approached Professor Orson Leach for a recommendation to design school.
“So, basically, you lost touch with the Leach family until four years back,” Jason summarized. “How did Ivanna meet them?”
“Art school. Harvey was like a dragonfly, flitting from this to that. He was a dancer and tried his hand with acting. Ivanna was doing set and costume design at a community college theater. I suppose they bonded because both families disapproved of a career in the arts.”
“Even though Orson himself is a design professor?”
“Exactly. Harvey says Orson didn’t want him to sniff around the underbelly of the art circuit, from who gets put on Broadway shows to who gets on the schedule of a fashion show. But even though he complains, I think Larry fixes jobs for him. Introduced him to Alida.”
“Alida’s name is everywhere. Does she run a modeling agency?”
“She has a finger in one of the elite agencies, yes,” Avery admitted. “It’s a big reason I got a debut last year at Manhattan Fashion Week.”
“I thought it was your relationship with Orson.”
“There are many factors, but none of this leads to Ivanna’s attack. Harvey has to be on good terms with her if he’s posing for a nude painting.”
“Maybe we’re sniffing at a red herring,” Jason admitted. “Except the man who tried to run you down was wearing aviator sunglasses, and Roland said that’s what Harvey wears.”
“You’re basing all this on sunglasses?” Her mouth dropped wide. “Has it occurred to you that sunglasses are a ready-made disguise? Put on a pair of outlandish ones, and that’s all a witness remembers.”
“I’m very well aware. I’m surprised you are. Is that why you push the crazy headdresses and masks on your models?”
For the first time since they arrived at her place, she smiled and her eyes relaxed. “You’re starting to get me. A face and body are blank canvases. The eye is drawn to something out of place, and the mind fixates on that contrasting image.”
“How do you find your models? Are you looking for something unusual?”
“Isn’t everyone?” She leaned back on the couch, swiveling and resting her head on the arm and putting her feet in his lap. “We’re always looking for the next bright thing. A special canvas to convey a mood, a quality of movement, energy, and glamour. The unique face.”
“And that’s where the agency comes in.”
“Yes, I don’t have time to flip through thousands of FacePlant pictures online or review hundreds of lookbooks. I give Alida’s assistant my list, and she runs them by Ivanna who knows the look I’m striving for. I do make the final cut, but by then, they’ve already been prescreened.”
“In other words, Ivanna is the linchpin on whether a model walks for you.”
“Yes.” She yawned and reached into a cubby. “Speaking of models, here are two passes for the fashion show for Popo.”
“Do you mind if I look through the models you have for the upcoming show?”
“I knew you’d ask.” She reached for her laptop which she kept under the sofa and booted it up. “Everything’s online nowadays, including their lookbooks.”
He eagerly took the laptop from her, leaving her lying on the couch. She had to be exhausted. He was for sure. It was hard to believe he’d woken up with her this morning in his hunting cabin, and now, she was lying on the sofa yawning with her feet in his lap.
He turned his attention to the online lookbooks of Avery’s current group of models. He took screenshots and logged in to a cloud account, uploading everything he could.
There was no objection from Avery, and when he looked over at her, he realized she was asleep.
Hot damn.
He had her laptop. He could dump her entire drive to his cloud account, and he could look at the models she’d used in the past.
His heartbeat racing, he browsed through the folders to the previous year. There was Brando Bonet—looking larger than life in a firefighter’s getup including helmet and axe.
In every picture he shared with Avery, Brando was gazing at her with utter adoration and worship, and she returned his affection with a warmth in her Madonna eyes that Jason had never seen reflected when her eyes narrowed in on him.
Jason gritted his teeth and kept scanning. He studied the other people in the group shots and took note of people caught in the photo who weren’t meant to be caught. Among them were Ivanna, Damon, Alida, Tatiana Renzi, and someone wearing wraparounds—suggesting Larry Leach, but as Avery had reminded him, an easy way to mislead.
>
At maybe the two to three hundredth image, he stopped scanning and enlarged for more detail.
Joselito was still alive last year, and he was at the Manhattan Fashion Show. He was with a group of models standing around Ivanna who was giving instructions while pointing his direction.
He uploaded everything to his cloud account, but there was nothing he could do tonight. His brain was fried and suddenly, all the caffeine in the world couldn’t keep him up.
Only Avery could, and she was zonked out cold.
Laying his head down on a cushion, he closed his eyes to connect the dots. Ivanna. Joselito. Larry. Alida. Harvey. Saul. Brando. Who was he missing?
And then, as he was drifting off, his eyes popped open.
The shooter.
It was time to take another look.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sometime in the night, Jason must have picked her dead weight up and tucked her into her bed. Avery opened her eyes and closed them again to prolong the early morning peace of the humming air conditioner and faint traffic noises percolating up to her apartment.
She tried to let her mind go blank, the way it had when she must have crashed last night. She’d drained herself. Filtering her memories through a sieve was tiring. She’d given Jason enough background on a few of her parents’ friends without any smoking guns pointing to anyone she cared about.
The Leaches were part of her parents’ social circle. They were a privileged group. Influential people with influential friends, mixing friendship with business and politics. Her dad always aspired to be more than a military man. Her mother didn’t portray herself as the typical military wife. For one thing, she never moved from the house she inherited from her grandparents. There was no such thing as living on a military base for her. She was an artist and hung out in The Village. She was also twenty years younger—an entire generation apart from the dutiful housewife type who juggled babies and puppies in cooking and cleaning.
Dad deployed, and Mom painted and partied. Her father had married late and was close to retirement when Avery was born. While the older three remembered their father going to war, she, Damon, and Harper had a father who commuted no farther than The City.
The Manor was their world, and they’d grown up sheltered and coddled in private schools where everyone won a participation trophy. Success and adulation were bestowed by the sheer fact of their parents’ position on the financial and social hierarchy.
It wasn’t an easy upbringing, and definitely not painless. But in her stiff upper lip world, she didn’t go around crying.
She was a pretty girl who grew to be a pretty woman.
“She’s so beautiful. She should be a model,” was spoken from the time she was in a bassinet to her awkward braces and knock-kneed preadolescent stage. As she blossomed in her teens, it was the path she was predestined for.
Beauty had its stiff price, even in the rarified and privileged world of a general’s daughter.
Her parents socialized heavily, and her young life had been dominated by hiding in her room during dinner parties. The boys tormented the guests, played pranks, and got away with it. Her baby sister was cute and noisy enough to be sent to the nanny’s house.
Guests wandered the hallways, mistaking her bedroom for a bathroom or making some other excuse to invade her private space.
Some were embarrassed, but others leered like they’d won a prize. When she was ten, she made the mistake of sitting on a hard lap in exchange for a chocolate bar.
She learned not to fight or scream or the hand would clamp harder over her mouth. She learned to play dumb and allow the touching and groping, the sniffing of her hair, the fondling of her budding breasts, the slimy lick slathering her ear, and the light suck on her neck that didn’t leave marks.
No one left DNA on her.
They were smart men—ambitious men—and they gave her candy, concert tickets, or favors, like admission to a competitive dance academy when she was twelve, a modeling contract when she turned sixteen, injections of cash into her trust fund, and introductions to agents who dolled her up and introduced her to the chic elite.
That was when she met Richie Overton.
Avery hated the drugged-out daze she’d existed in while perfecting her walk and throwing off whatever energy or mood the designers hoped to evoke.
Modeling was a lot like acting, complete with the casting couch and meet and greets with influential people. When beauty became a commodity, and glamour wasn’t enough, those who did favors got the big bookings—with their agents getting a finder’s fee.
Lighting the candles at a senator’s birthday party.
Sitting on the lap of a foreign dignitary.
Being seen around town with a visiting prince.
Decorating the cocktail parties of an ambassador.
Dating an athlete needing an image makeover.
She hadn’t progressed as far as she’d thought.
Throwing aside the thin sheet that covered her, Avery noticed she’d fallen asleep in her clothes—her jeans still on. She felt grungy, and not at all like the princess Brando had made her out to be.
The sound of the coffee maker percolating in the kitchen drove her to her feet. Had Jason put something into her coffee to loosen her lips and talk herself into exhaustion?
She tiptoed to her bedroom door and peered out into the living room. He wasn’t there. The couch looked unslept in, and her laptop was closed on the coffee table. The mugs had been removed.
“Jason?” she called as she crossed into the kitchen.
No answer.
He left a note on the counter.
Ave, hope you slept well. I brewed you some coffee. Set the timer and hope it’s still warm when you wake. I went to the precinct to check on some things. Call me.
She picked up the canister he’d left on the counter and rolled her eyes, laughing at his mistake.
He’d used decaffeinated beans.
No wonder she’d been out for the count.
Yawning, she poured the decaf down the drain and found her light roast Kenya AA beans.
Her phone rang as she poured her first cup.
It was Kerry, her surfer friend from Hawaii.
“Hey, girl, you’re in the news these days,” Kerry said. “Hope everything’s okay.”
“It’s been crazy.” Avery slouched on the couch. “I’m fine, though. What are they saying on social media?”
“You’re dating a football player. They try to kill him, and you almost get run over. Then you disappear with a rogue cop who is accused by your brother of kidnapping you. You survive a high-speed crash on the expressway, and your model wrangler is in the hospital in a coma. Did I cover it?”
“All in a single weekend.” She wiped her hand through her sticky hair. “I’m behind on the show prep.”
“Need a hand? I’m arriving at JFK this afternoon, and I’m pretty good with the sewing machine.”
“You’re on,” Avery said, almost squealing.
She and Kerry had so much to catch up on, now that her friend was back on the surfing circuits and dating a hunky Army Ranger. During his vacation breaks, she would meet him at the hottest surfing locations, from Tasmania to Portugal.
“You have a spot in the show for me?” Kerry asked.
She and Avery had met back when Avery modeled surf wear. The organizer had wanted Avery to appear to surf, and Kerry had given her basic lessons so she could stand on a board and look like she was shredding waves.
“How would you like to pose with Matt Swanson?”
“Would I? You know I’m a fan girl.”
“Great. I hope you’re not allergic to feathers.” She giggled, and Kerry giggled along with her.
“Getting kinky, aren’t we? Can’t wait to hear all about you and Matt. Somehow, I didn’t think he’s your type, but if it floats your boat, why not?”
“Why not?” Avery echoed.
“Anything else I can do to help?” Kerry asked. “I’m sure you’
ll need someone to line up the models during the show.”
“Not only during, but from the wakeup calls to making sure they’re at their makeup stations, wardrobe, and place in line. Think you can handle it?”
“It can’t be any worse than running a surfing competition,” Kerry said. “I’ll do whatever you need.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Call me when your flight gets in.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jason would have liked to have coffee with Avery, but he had leads to check out and suspects to eliminate. Early in the morning, he stopped by the precinct to make printouts and gather information he had on the model deaths.
Then he called Popo.
She asked him to meet at her apartment above the shop. On the way over, he refreshed his memory on the shooter.
Ernesto Gomez was a twenty-two-year-old illegal alien who worked at The Sting, a dive bar in Soho. The case notes report that the owner and his coworkers were shocked that the mild-mannered and reclusive dishwasher and busboy would have carried out a hit.
No one was sure if he had family, although one of the bartenders thought Ernesto had either a brother or cousin who was an actor or dancer—they weren’t sure.
Ernesto himself was quite ordinary looking, with a face that could be a blank canvas—the type of guy who no one noticed was perfect for hit jobs. Average weight, height, no outstanding features, light tan skin, brown hair cut medium length, no facial hair. Jason had noticed him because of his nervousness and frequent wiping of sweat from his forehead. He had definitely been overdressed for a late summer fashion show taking place in a warehouse basement.
Toxicology reports came back negative for drugs and alcohol, and there were no signs of drug use on the body. According to the supervisor, the young man shared a one-bedroom apartment with five other males, but everyone minded their own business and stayed inside their own chain-link enclosures they built to safeguard their belongings while working.
It was a given none of Ernesto’s flatmates spoke to the police. In fact, several moved out after his death. The super was closemouthed and didn’t give good information, although he was adamant that Ernesto had no girlfriends. Who’d shack up with a guy sleeping inside a cage?
Triggered by Love Page 24
