Suckered

by Gina LaManna

  “Friends might be a bit of a stretch. More like acquaintances.”

  “Did you know the other designers who’ve had pieces stolen this week?”

  Lizabeth frowned. “You’re thinking there’s a link between us?”

  “I think there might be.”

  Lizabeth pursed her lips. “I don’t know…”

  I shrugged. “It could be random thefts, I suppose. A grab for money or jewels, but I’m not convinced. There are too many coincidences. If we can find a link, it might help us figure out the why. That could lead us to the who.”

  Her frown deepened. “Two other designers have had pieces stolen this week. One of the pieces is a small watch—it retails for $25 thousand. The other is a ring valued at $75 thousand.”

  “All of them have been different styles? Different prices? Any similarities between you and the other designers?” I reached for a small notebook I’d tucked into my purse. “I’ll need to get the names of the other two designers. I’d like to talk to them briefly if you don’t mind.”

  “All the victims have been vastly different so far. Marquita debuted over fifteen years ago. The other designer is named Chad. He’s been on the fringe of breaking in for years.”

  “Chad, you said?” I jotted it down next to the number $25k. “Do you know his last name? I’ll look into him and Marquita.”

  “He’s just Chad. You know, like Prince.”

  “I thought a person couldn’t get away with a single name until they were famous,” Meg chirped. “If anyone can go around doing it, I might ditch my last name and stick with Meg.”

  “That’s all anyone ever calls you, anyway,” I said. “I bet nobody even knows your real last name.”

  “That’s the point. They don’t need to.” Meg smiled, waving at the police officers, who looked more than a little confused. “I’ll be signing autographs all day for anyone interested.”

  “The third victim is a designer named Leslie Mulhorn. She’s quietly successful, and she’s been around for the longest of the three. Leslie just turned seventy-one. She’s been in this business since she turned eighteen. A legend in the industry. Her family goes way, way back.”

  I jotted down all of the names. “Do you know Chad or Leslie?”

  “I’ve never personally met Chad,” Lizabeth said. “I once wrote a letter to Leslie after hearing her speak, but I never heard back. As for the pieces themselves, we have a necklace, a watch, and now a ring that have been stolen.”

  “Each time the thief strikes,” I said, “the stakes get higher.”

  Lizabeth nodded. “Yes. My pieces begin at 1.2 million, which is why I believe I haven’t been a target…yet.”

  “But you’re thinking you might be next,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. “It’s almost like the thief is practicing with smaller heists.”

  “When does he stop?” Lizabeth raised her shoulders. “When he’s stolen five million? Ten? Everything?”

  “We’ll find him, and we’ll keep The Miranda safe,” I assured Lizabeth. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “I’m not worried.” Lizabeth smiled. “Now, I have to speak to Marquita. In the meantime, let me introduce you to a friend of mine in the Italian police force. He should be around here, somewhere. While I look, please feel free to poke around. If anyone gives you trouble, say you’re with me.”

  Lizabeth left in search of her contact. Meg was busy autographing a few napkins and handing them out to random police officers.

  “There you are…” She tucked one in a confused officer’s pocket. “You’re welcome.”

  I dragged Meg away and shot a look of apology at the cop. “The crime scene,” I muttered. “Let’s go look.”

  Meg came along, peeping over my shoulder at the shattered glass case in the center of the showroom. She gave a low whistle. “That’s surprisingly brutish, all that busted up glass. I was thinking it’d be more like James Bond. You know, lasers and sexy ladies and whatnot.”

  “Well, he’s fancy enough that he didn’t get caught.”

  A marble column-esque pedestal stood in the middle of the room. Light streamed in from floor-to-ceiling windows, the space very chic and minimal. A clear case had formerly enclosed the top of the pedestal. That case now lay in pieces on the ground. The area was roped off, though we inched close enough to see an empty velvet pillow, the imprint of a circle still fresh.

  “Trauma from a blunt object,” a voice said from behind me. “A thin, sturdy object. Like pencil or pen, but stronger.”

  I turned to find a short, clean-cut man speaking with a minimal Italian accent. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a Carabinieri uniform.

  “Are you Lizabeth’s friend?” I asked.

  He nodded, his thick hair glinting against the sunlight. “She donated generously to my son’s medical bills last year when she first opened her store. I was there at the opening. She met my son then, and I’ve never forgotten her kindness. Anything I can do to help you or Lizabeth, let me know, Miss Luzzi and…” he trailed off, glancing toward Meg. “Miss…?”

  “I’m famous.” Meg waved a hand, extending an autographed napkin. “You can call me Meg.”

  “Lucas,” he said, shaking first my hand, then Meg’s. He then folded up the proffered napkin and gave us a tight smile. “That’s all the information we have, unfortunately. There were no prints left at any of the three scenes. No notes, no clues, no threats. Whoever’s behind this wanted in and out, and they succeeded.”

  “Profitable day’s work,” I said, my gaze flicking toward the front door. I squinted at Lizabeth, who was chatting with the leggy brunette we’d seen earlier. “Have all of the pieces been in glass cases?”

  “Yes.” Lucas gestured toward the shattered remains on the floor. “The thief is using some sort of tool to penetrate the glass, almost like a hammer, or… it’s hard to say. We haven’t been able to identify the tool.”

  “Huh, that’s strange.”

  “The lab has reported that the shattered glass has traces of dust on it, but it’s the same dust found everywhere in the store,” he said, swinging a hand toward the broken glass.

  “Is the dust surprising?” I asked.

  “It’s more concentrated than it should be, which is why it turned up in reports. These jewelry cases are temperature-controlled, airtight, and very, very clean. Almost sterile. If anything, I’d expect to see less grime on the shards, but that’s not the case.”

  I took a sip of my milk and espresso mixture, stalling while I thought. “Do any of these places have security cameras?”

  “They were all shorted the night of the break-ins.”

  “This is a professional thief?”

  “It appears so.” Lucas ran a hand across his forehead. “We haven’t seen such a highly targeted spree of thefts in a while. At least, not in the high end jewelry industry. These stores are famous for their security. Especially here on Via Montenapoleone.”

  “What about guards?”

  “Each store has its own private guards, but none of them saw anything. Leslie’s guard was on a restroom break when it happened there. As for Chad and Marquita, their guards were on duty and watching the screens, but they didn’t see anything. It’s likely the feeds were somehow looped to show an empty store.”

  “Dang, this guy is good,” Meg said. “I like him already. I mean, if he didn’t steal stuff.”

  “I need to get back to my team, but if you have any questions, let Lizabeth know, and she can put us in touch.” Lucas backed away with a funny look at Meg. “Miss Morgan knows where to find me.”

  I thanked Lucas again, and Meg handed him another napkin. Then he left, dropping both napkins into the trash can on his way out the door.

  “I suppose we should get going. We could talk to the other designers,” I said. “If the cops can’t find anything here, it’s unlikely we will.”

  “True,” Meg said. “We don’t really have any tools.”

  “I bet there’s a pattern. If we
look hard enough, maybe we can figure it out. I just don’t think it’s random.”

  “I don’t think it’s random either.” This time, the voice belonged to a woman—the very same brunette who’d breezed past the police ahead of us. She joined us in front of the empty case. “It’s too coincidental to be random.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or herself, so I settled for a non-committal murmur of agreement. I peeked down at her shoes. Stilettos at least five inches tall gave her some serious lift, and I realized she wasn’t as “leggy” as I’d first thought. She was cheating. If I wore stilts, I could be a giraffe, too.

  “I’m Alessandra,” she said, reaching a hand over. “I heard you guys talking to Lucas, and I thought I’d say hi.”

  “Lacey,” I said, shaking her hand. “And the one signing that man’s forehead is Meg.”

  Meg whistled a hello, and then went back to signing autographs for unsuspecting tourists.

  “Where’d you get that thing?” Alessandra spoke in impeccable English, and despite her tanned skin, dark brown eyes, and Latin features, I guessed she was American.

  “Get what?” I asked, realizing too late that I was staring. She was very pretty, and I had a little bit of a girl-crush.

  “Your coffee mug. I can’t find a mug bigger than a thimble here.”

  I laughed. “I know, it’s crazy! I poured three shots of espresso in here and mixed it with milk. It’s actually not too bad.”

  “You’ll never be able to sleep.” She winked. “I’ve made that mistake before.”

  “I needed coffee,” I said sheepishly. “Do you know any places that serve an American brew?”

  “I do, but it’s sort of a secret,” she said, lowering her voice. “Tell them Alessandra sent you, and they’ll make it special. Hang on, I’ll draw you a map since telling you directions is too confusing. These streets make no sense to me.”

  As she pulled up a sheet of paper on her clipboard, I watched over her shoulder as she drew the map, feeling a kinship with this stranger. Anyone who understood coffee was a friend to me. Even if I was jealous of her. For everything. She spoke two languages fluently. She could navigate a crowd in heels. She had as much confidence as Meg, and somehow, she was still really funny.

  “Here.” She tore off a sheet and handed it to me. The crunch of glass sounded beneath her heel as she stepped a tad over the Do Not Cross line in front of the pedestal. She looked down and raised her eyebrows. “Whoops, shouldn’t have done that. Anyway, enjoy the coffee. How long are you visiting Milan?”

  “Do I look like a tourist?”

  “It’s the accent,” she said. “I’m here visiting, too.”

  “For work or fun?”

  “I’m an assistant,” she said. “Here for Fashion Week.”

  It took me a few seconds to figure out if she was dodging my question. “You’re the assistant to Marquita, or…?”

  “Lacey, one more thing.” A tap on my shoulder pulled me out of the conversation. Lucas’s gaze paused on Alessandra before it turned to me, and frankly, I didn’t blame him. The cop cleared his throat and handed me a card. “If you want to visit the other designers, take this with you. I know them both personally. I let them know you might be stopping by. They should be cooperative.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping the card into my pocket. “I appreciate it.”

  When he left, I turned to find Alessandra bidding Meg goodbye.

  “Nice to meet you both.” She air-kissed my cheeks, her perfume summery and light. “And seriously, try the coffee!”

  I waved goodbye. Then I took my time strolling around the scene, making notes about anything that looked suspicious. I didn’t take very many notes. Except for the broken glass, nothing seemed out of place. The cops seemed just as stumped, and according to Lizabeth, nobody had any new information.

  Lizabeth was held up in interviews with reporters, so I whispered that we’d catch up with her later. Marquita herself stood behind the register. I swung by, but she looked too distraught for more questions. In the middle of a conversation with the police, she spoke more with her hands than she did with her mouth. If I wanted to ask her questions, I’d have to wait.

  “Come on, Meg,” I said. “Let’s find Chad.”

  Chapter 7

  Chad’s showroom was located in a small fashion district close to the D’uomo. To get there, we needed to use the Metro. I didn’t know how to use a Metro in America, let alone in a foreign country, so we had a few hiccups.

  We first hopped on the train and rode three stops before we realized it was the wrong direction. We exited, and then rode six stops the other way before we realized it was the wrong color Metro Line. It took lots of stumbling and investigation from a small pocket dictionary that I’d picked up at the airport before a local finally drew us a map on the back of a grocery receipt.

  “This way,” I said to Meg, as we followed the map out into sunlight.

  “Finally,” she said. “Good thing we don’t have a Metro system, or I’d spend all day trying to figure out how to get home.”

  We escaped the flocks of pigeons and storeowners selling their wares and stepped onto a quiet side street. The fashion district brimmed with life—classy life. No signs of yoga pants anywhere. Good thing I’d worn a sundress.

  Tipping the map upside down, then right side up, and finally left side up, I forfeited trying to follow directions. “Chad should be around here somewhere. If we just walk for long enough, we’ll find him.”

  “I want to go there.” Meg pointed at the window of a ritzy-looking storefront. “There’s a tiger in their front window, and a live model in the other one. Do you see that?”

  I followed her extended hand, my eyes landing on the tiger and the human in opposite sides of the glass. I was pretty sure the tiger was fake. I was also pretty sure the human was real. “Let’s go the other way. She looks hungry.”

  “Which one? The tiger or the model? Because the girl could definitely use a hamburger.”

  I surveyed first the model—very thin, very tall, wispy even. Then I looked to the stuffed tiger. “Both.”

  “I wonder how I can apply to be a live model.” Meg stomped behind me as we turned onto a small street. “I’ve got the hungry look going, since I’m on a restricted diet and all.”

  “What have you restricted yourself to?”

  “You know, the basics. I’ve cut out octopus. I’ve also laid off the dragon fruits in these last few days. And I can’t even tell you the last time I had movie popcorn.”

  “I can tell you. Last week you got one at the theater with me and Clay.”

  “I said I can’t tell you, not the other way around,” Meg said. “So those are the basics. I’ll probably add to the list because I read an article that I’ll hit a plateau and losing weight will become harder.”

  “You don’t need to lose weight to fit into a dress.” I gave her a sideways glance. “You are perfect as is. Most women would kill to have your…uh, sense of confidence.”

  “Yeah, I have great confidence, don’t I?” Meg preened for passing tourists. One poor sucker from a tour bus raised the camera around his neck and snapped a photo. “Autographs!” she trilled. “Available for a small price.”

  “So why are you dieting?” I yanked her out of the spotlight before her head got so big she floated away.

  “That’s what people do, Lacey.”

  “If they jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?”

  “Depends on how high the bridge was,” Meg said after a moment of contemplation. “And, you know, if there were rocks at the bottom and stuff. I’ve always wanted to try bridge jumping into the lake. Maybe up at Taylor’s Falls. I see people jumping off of rocks there all the time.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “It’s dangerous.”

  Meg’s protests were drowned out by a familiar shriek. My grandmother rushed out of a shop hidden among the rest of the storefronts. She ran so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet on
the way.

  “Look who it is!” She clapped her hands vigorously. “I was just talking about you. Did you feel the tingle? Lacey, were your ears tingling?”

  I winced in pain as Nora grabbed both of my ears and shook them. “Why were you talking about me?”

  “Because you’re the beautiful, blushing bride-to-be!”

  “We haven’t set a date for the wedding yet,” I said. “Don’t go jumping ahead of yourself.”

  “You are getting married, aren’t you?” Nora threw her hands on her hips. “You promised.”

  “I promised Anthony, not you, and yes. We’re getting married. We’ve just been busy, and neither of us are in a particular rush to run down the aisle.”

  “Well, I’m in a tiny bit of a rush,” Nora said. “You know, to avoid dying and all of that nonsense. If you wait too long…” Nora mimicked the choking motion, stopping only when Meg prepared to perform the Heimlich on her.

  “We’re going to talk about it when we get back from the trip. I promise,” I assured her. “We both want to get married, just…when the time is right.”

  “As long as you’re getting married, then you’re still my blushing bride. Come in! We’re having a tea party. Have a cappuccino.”

  “Shouldn’t there be tea at a tea party?” I followed Nora into the room, surprised to find a large group of her friends staring up at Meg and me. Glancing down at my cold espresso slathered in milk, and then sniffing the java beans ground in the background, I changed my mind. “I’ll have two, please.”

  “Double for me too,” Meg said. “They say drinking coffee helps burn calories, and at this rate, I’m gonna have to eat more food just to stay healthy.”

  “I don’t think it works like that,” I said. “It doesn’t burn that many calories.”

  “The way I drink coffee, it does.” Meg plopped herself down at a table. “Hello, ladies. How goes it?”

  No less than six heads of various colors—reds, blondes, browns, and blacks—swiveled toward her. None of the colors were real, and neither was the stiffness of their hairdos. Whoever had lit the candle at the center of the table had been a brave soul; there was no way I’d strike a match within a hundred feet of this much hairspray.