Blonde Ops

by Charlotte Bennardo, Natalie Zaman

  My room, on the other hand, was exactly the way I’d left it.

  Or was it?

  Having had more roommates than most people have in a lifetime, I’d figured out ways to protect my privacy. A single hair draped across my laptop, pens aimed at some focal point, money hidden in smelly shoes. Only I hadn’t had time to set up my usual safeguards. Anyway, a strand of my neon-pink locks would be too bright and noticeable lying on the black cover of my laptop—and I’d had that with me all day, so it was safe. Was I paranoid? A little. I’d had my share of privacy invasions.

  Still, something didn’t feel right. I had nothing anyone would want, but something was out of place. I scanned the room. On the desk was the homework packet from Dean Harding.

  I’d left it with the text facing the window; now it faced the door.

  My room had been searched.

  TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

  Nothing is as versatile as classic beauty. Flawless skin, a cat-eye sweep of black liner or shadow, and red lips …

  7

  I banged on the door of Candace’s room. The talk on the other side went silent, and after a long moment, it opened. Varon stared back at me, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Jackson?” he said.

  “I want to see Candace. Now.” I tried to peer around him, but somehow he managed to take up all the available space the doorway had to offer.

  “Ms. Worthington is busy.”

  “I. Don’t. Care.”

  Suddenly Candace materialized behind him, towering head, neck, and shoulders over her proper PA. “What is it, Varon?” she asked. Catching sight of me she wrinkled her brow—someone skipped a Botox session. “What do you want?”

  “Someone was in my room,” I said.

  I thought I heard Varon huff. Candace definitely did. “I doubt—”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. I wanted to show them I meant business, and I wasn’t leaving until I was taken seriously.

  Candace stared at me but eventually Her Highness gave an impatient sigh. “No one searched your room. Why would we?”

  I fixed her with a stare. “I never said you did. And I don’t know why, all I know is that someone, not me, was in there. My homework packet was moved. The address on the envelope was pointing toward the window when I left. After I came back from the office, it was pointed in the opposite direction, toward the door.”

  “The maid service—”

  “I was here when they were. My stuff was moved after.”

  Her face gave me no clue to what she was thinking. She tapped her fingers against her elbow; 1, 2, 3, 4.… “I’m sure with all the excitement, the First Lady’s upcoming visit, the Secret Service asking questions—”

  “It’s true!”

  Her tone was even and sure. “No one was in your room. We know everything about you. Unless there’s something new…?”

  “No.” My reply was a bit surly, but at least it wasn’t offensive. Yet.

  She nodded. “I thought so. Now, I don’t want to be bothered with nonsense like this again. I don’t have time for it.” She held up a broad palm when I opened my mouth to argue. “No one touched your things, Rebecca. Go back to your room.” She turned away. “Varon,” she called, and the door was slammed in my face.

  WTF just happened?!

  I felt like banging on the door again, but I was smart enough to know when I’d been dismissed.

  No—dissed.

  And I wouldn’t be getting any further information.

  Right there I made a holy vow to get even with Candace. No one—and I mean no one—touched my stuff and got away with it. It was probably one of the agents who did it—before they returned to the office, when I’d stopped at the bakery. Or it could just as easily have been Blondie herself. Or her little minion. They were both here before I was, thanks to the ID photography session. I stomped back to my room. Someone had been in there and dammit, I was going to find out who and what he—or she—messed with.

  I pulled my pencil case out of my backpack, retrieved my makeup kit from the bathroom, and took out my black eye shadow, blush brush, and some clear tape. I locked the door against someone coming in, then like a CSI investigator hunting a serial killer, I dusted the surface of the desk and the envelope from Dean Harding. Real detectives used a special black powder. I would have to make do with MAC Onyx Dust.

  Using the brush, I gently swept the powder away and a number of fingerprints appeared. I took a picture of each with my phone, then using the clear tape, lifted the prints off. I didn’t bother doing the entire room because between maids and former guests, I’d get too many prints to identify. The desk and the envelope were enough. I stuck the samples in a notebook. Now the only thing left to do was to get prints from Candace, Varon, and each agent and find who matched. If it was Candace, then my evidence would prove that she was a liar and I wouldn’t believe anything she told me. If it was any of the agents, well, then I’d blame her for that too.

  Satisfied with my plan of action, I moved on to the more important task of finding Parker. I’d already called the closest hospitals, but in addition the language barrier, it was possible that an order not to disclose the fact that Parker might be there stood in my way. Time to go stealth digital. If the agents were watching—monitoring the Internet—they’d be able to see that someone at the hotel was trawling for Parker’s name. Of course I would be the prime suspect. Couldn’t have that! Bypassing the hotel’s wi-fi, I tapped into a neighbor’s connection and scrambled my IP address just to be safe before I launched a search of all the hospitals in the city. That done, one by one I coded myself into the patient data bases.

  Medical Nuovo Salario. Nothing.

  Casa De Cura Villa Salario. No Parker Phillips.

  Nothing came up in any hospital in Rome.

  Case said he couldn’t disclose where Parker was, but she couldn’t have gone far if she was in serious condition. I had to dig deeper, but I knew I wouldn’t have much time; I was sure Candace itched to get rid of me, so any excuse—like getting caught hacking in a foreign hospital’s patients’ private records—would do. Mom would be in Belize for the next two weeks. If I got sent back to the States, she would have to cut her business trip short and she’d be furious. I’d never managed to kill one of her deals. Or Dad’s. What would they do to me if that happened? House arrest?

  I ate dinner alone in my room and used the rest of the evening to try and dig up some dirt on Candace. I only found things that everyone already knew: temper like an unstable volcano, a penchant for five-inch heels, preferably in the skin of an exotic species like Komodo dragon, baby seal, or shark. And that infamous icy stare. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much on the Web about her life before her glamorous career.

  No one came looking for me even though I’d been quiet for hours, which just reinforced everything I’d heard and seen on TV: Candace Worthington was domineering, stone-hearted, and cutthroat—and didn’t notice anyone she considered beneath her. I was unnecessary and unwanted baggage. And with my history, a potential security risk. I was pretty good at covering my tracks, but I’d have to be extra careful with the Secret Service sneaking and snooping about.

  First I would locate Parker and find out exactly how and why she ended up in the hospital.

  Then, I’d turn my attention—and talents—to Blondie.

  TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

  The best beauty tip: RELAX. A spa day, yoga class, or a long, leisurely lunch will soothe your spirit, brighten your outlook, and put a smile—the BEST accessory—on your face.

  8

  The next morning I stopped by my new favorite panetteria for a coffee and pastry. Just about every place I passed reminded me of running into Dante. I was about to leave when my friend the baker came out of the back.

  “Come sta, signor?” I waved to him.

  He threw up his hands, a jovial expression on his face. “Eh! Buono, buono! Good!”

  Candace hadn�
�t given me an exact time to come in or specified that I had to be escorted, so I felt no guilt about taking my time and stopping for breakfast. I couldn’t face Kevin and Candace on an empty stomach. This time I ordered—and paid for—an ice cream–stuffed brioche. There was only one way to walk and eat: S-l-o-w-l-y.

  At the office I discovered Francesca holding Taliah captive halfway between the kitchen and the front desk. Kevin really should consider stapling her to the reception chair.

  “I heard that Taj is coming!” Francesca gushed.

  Taliah’s eyes sparkled “If you stay at your desk, you’ll be the first one to see him! Oh, I’m so jealous!” From her pinched smile I could tell Taliah didn’t mean a word about being jealous, but Francesca let out a breathy gasp and practically ran back up front.

  I strolled past, trying not to laugh. Taj was probably some model, photographer, or designer they both had their claws out for. Big deal. I had more important things to think about: like keeping a sharp eye on what Candace, Varon, and the agents touched.

  I offered to take Case’s cup to the kitchen when he finished his coffee—and stuffed it behind my backpack. First item to be dusted for prints—acquired. There were plenty of powders and brushes around, so no one would notice if I borrowed what I needed. The problem was the actual dusting without getting caught. That would really raise eyebrows and questions.

  When Nelson, the agent with the buzz cut and itchy trigger finger, threw away his water bottle, I noted which one it was and began to collect the trash around the room as soon as he was gone. I was about to lift his bottle and dump the rest when—

  “What are you doing?” said Kevin over my left shoulder, making me jump.

  “Straightening up.” Well, I was collecting the trash, but only to get Nelson’s prints.

  He nodded. “Initiative. Keep it up.”

  After he turned away, I made sure no one saw that I stole Nelson’s bottle and dumped the rest. Holding it by the cap, I quickly stuffed it behind my backpack with Case’s cup. No one was paying any attention to me as I organized the makeup tables upstairs and pocketed the dark setting powder and brush used on Taliah.

  Trying to play it James Bond–smooth, I headed toward the bathroom, bulging backpack and all—and almost ran into Candace coming out.

  “Hey,” I said and kept walking. She didn’t react and didn’t seem to see me watching her out of my peripheral vision. She headed downstairs, not back to her office. Opportunity! I nipped across the hall. Praying no one would spy me, I snuck into her office.

  It was a good thing Candace saw herself as something special. No water bottles for her. Crystal glass only—and she’d left one on her desk. The morning sun shining through the windows highlighted her blood red lipstick and several nice, clear prints. I swiped it, turned to leave, and there was Varon standing in the doorway in another exquisitely fitted, expensive-looking suit. He leaned with one slender palm pressed on the inside of the door frame. When would I be able to dust that? Probably never.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  I lifted up the glass boldly. “My job. Collecting dishes and trash. Haven’t you seen Kevin’s chart?”

  “With a backpack?”

  “Multitasking,” I said, not missing a beat. “Kevin says I can’t stash my stuff up here anymore. Figured I’d stop in to see if there was anything to clear away. And look.” I shook the glass at him.

  He deliberated a moment. “Fine. Go.”

  I pushed past him and ran downstairs to the kitchen, not stopping until I was safely locked in the bathroom. Only then did I exhale. Close call! I held the bottle, the cup, and last, Candace’s glass up to the light for closer inspection. The glass had three glorious prints. My guess: index, middle, and thumb.

  Priceless.

  I dusted and photographed the glass, then ran them through the Compare/Contrast app on my phone. Who knew an app designed to compare designer handbags to see if you bought the rear thing or a fake could also be used for comparing other things—like fingerprints. The result—no matches.

  Somehow I felt deflated that it wasn’t Candace who’d searched my room. But that just meant she had one of the agents do it. When I found a match, she was going to hear about it.

  I dusted the bottle and cup. No match on Case or Nelson either, clearing them. That left Agent Ortiz and Varon. I took a wet paper towel and wiped away the powdered prints. Ducking out of the bathroom, I stashed my backpack under a couch in the common room. With the agents about, I was more determined than ever to keep their prying fingers off my laptop. If they found out about my hospital trawl and confiscated it, a search might reveal things that would set me up for another round of questioning—and maybe a red-eye flight back home. And I wasn’t leaving without finding out about Parker.

  All that was left was to return the borrowed brush and powder to the makeup station, put the water bottle in the recycling bin, and wash the cup and glass—which I did without anyone having a clue. I joined Sophie, who was helping Francesca stamp and address envelopes at the front desk.

  “Should I have Joe cut my hair? Taj is really into bangs now,” Francesca said.

  Sophie shrugged in response.

  “Who is Ta—” I began to ask, when Kevin interrupted me.

  “Bec. Angelo needs you in the studio.”

  “I’ll go!” Francesca jumped up, smoothing her hair. Kevin shook his head and crooked a finger at me. “Now.”

  I spent the remainder of the morning as Angelo’s second assistant, which meant tilting lights by the millimeter, learning which camera he wanted next, and adjusting Taliah’s clothes seam by seam. When the day crept past noon, people started trickling out of the office. Sophie found me helping Aldo dismantle the gigantic green screen.

  “Let’s go out for lunch,” she suggested “You look like you need to get out of here.”

  “We’ll have to sneak out,” I whispered, “Candace hasn’t given me permission to leave.”

  Sophie laughed. “No need. She’s already gone.” Downstairs, she grabbed her purse from a desk drawer and I quickly snagged my backpack from under the couch.

  First we stopped off at a bank where I exchanged some of my money. Apparently we got lucky because the clerk behind the desk was about to shut down for his own lunch.

  “Who closes up at one in the afternoon?” I asked.

  “Around here? That’s normal. Everyone takes a long lunch, except at Edge.” She made a face. “But even we can take a breather once in a while.”

  My greenbacks swapped for colorful euros, I stuffed them into my wallet as we stepped outside. From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Agent Ortiz, but she got lost when a group of tourists passed by. She seemed to be looking for something or someone. Deliberately, I turned away. She was part of Candace’s crew, and I didn’t want to risk meeting her eyes and giving her the opportunity to tell me that I wasn’t allowed out of the office.

  “Let’s go,” I said, urging Sophie ahead. We walked down a street to a little sidewalk café and I didn’t look back to see if Ortiz had seen us or followed us.

  “You’ll love this place,” Sophie gushed, “they have the best pranzo in town.”

  “Pranzo?”

  “Lunch! Hope you’re hungry!”

  The meal was long and languorous. Sautéed chicken, fresh tomatoes, and basil tucked into tiny nests of angel hair pasta came first, followed by a pile of zucchini flowers, golden, crispy and stuffed with cheese. Mom would love the fact that I was dining out and not holed up in the hotel room in front of my computer with a bag of chips and a can of Red Bull. I glanced at my watch more than once. Candace had us all on a short leash, and I did not want to get on her bad side.

  “Don’t worry,” said Sophie. “She’s lunching with some Italian journalists, and you can’t hurry them through a meal. I promise we’ll be back before them.” She sipped her lemon water. “So, how do you like working at Edge?”

  “It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to sound crit
ical or admit even to myself that despite my initial resentment that I was starting to like being here. “But it’s not what I would have chosen for a summer job. What about you?”

  Sophie pushed her mostly empty plate aside and leaned back. “I thought I’d be able to write more, even if it was small sidebars and fillers, anything that could make an editor say, ‘You’re fabulous!’ The most writing I’ve done is photo captions.”

  The waiter brought the check. Ten euros each—not bad for all that food. We pulled out our wallets and paid.

  “So, is that what you want to do? Write for a fashion magazine?” Inwardly I shuddered at the thought, but hey, not everyone could be a techno geek.

  “I’ve been writing since I was five and pulling outfits together since I was seven.”

  I could believe it. Sophie always looked good—in the way that you didn’t notice her outfit so much as her. Today she had on a simple white linen skirt, tee, and brown jacket, all perfectly fitted and accented with an ethnic-looking belt and gold earrings. Nude-toned pumps with a chunky heel made her long legs seem endless.

  “Fashion is in the sky, the street.” She went on, “It has to do with ideas, the way we live, what’s happening. It’s the ultimate form of personal self-expression.”

  I nodded, considering. “That’s deep.”

  She smiled. “That’s Coco Chanel—paraphrased, of course. I love finding the connection she and so many other designers see between fashion and life.”

  I stood. “Come on, we have to get back. I’m sure Kevin is in the process of finding new ways to torture me, like assigning me to help Francesca do her job.”

  On the way back to the office, I spotted Ortiz again on the opposite side of the street. Where had she been? Not in our little café, but there were plenty of them all through the neighborhood.

  As soon as we walked in, Sophie was sent to run errands, and I got to take care of all the models’ clothes. Of course the skinny darlings dropped them all over the floor, turned inside out.