by Deanna Chase
5
That night, Angie was hunched over the sewing machine, busy making last minute adjustments to one of madame’s designs. Her shoulders were killing her. She looked at her watch; it was almost nine. Needing a break, she stretched and nearly groaned when her neck popped. Wearily, she rubbed her burning eyes.
When she stood, a wave of dizziness hit her and her hands braced against the table. She hadn’t eaten a thing since her croissant that morning. Her blood sugar must be low. She remembered the bowl of fruit at the back of the conference room they were using in the hotel.
She grabbed an apple and took a big bite before she snagged a banana for later. At the last second, she also picked up a bottle of water and put the last two items in her hobo bag. Overcome with exhaustion, she decided it was time to call it a day. Angie hung up the dress she’d been working on, then began to pack up her belongings: her sketch book, fabric book, and madame’s design book for the show. Although the room would be locked, she couldn't take the chance they might be stolen.
Arms full, Angie awkwardly made her way toward the front of the hotel. Her mind was going a million miles a minute with all the things that still needed to be done before Fashion Week started.
Distracted by her thoughts, she ran smack into a gentleman in the lobby. The books scattered across the floor in all directions.
“Oh, my, gosh, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me,” she sputtered as she scrambled around the floor trying to round up the errant items.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me.”
Shocked by the sound of his voice, Angie’s head shot up and she found herself staring into those amazing eyes from this morning. Yup, Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my pants was squatting next to her with an amused look on his face. Oh Hell, what in the world did I ever do to deserve this?
She jumped to her feet, and her hands flew to her hips. “Oh, right, like I have nothing better to do than search all over Paris for the likes of you. And how could I have mastered such a feat? I don’t even know your name!” Great Ang, like that’s going make matters better.
Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my-pants shifted the pile of books under his arm and shoved his right hand out to Angie. “Jon-Luc Boudreaux at your service, but my friends call me Luc.”
Angie stared at the outstretched hand and deliberated.
After a moment, she clasped it and shook it once before breaking contact. “Mr. Boudreaux. May I have my books back?” She hated the twinkle in his eyes and more than anything, she wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face.
Let all the other women in Paris fall at this guy’s feet. She was no fool. She would make sure this guy knew she was way too smart to give in to his smoldering hot looks and easy charm. She stood there with her arms held out, waiting for him to hand over her belongings, but he seemed to be holding them hostage. For what, she had no idea.
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“And for good reason. How do I know you’re not stalking me?” she answered defiantly.
“Have dinner with me, then you’ll be able to make an informed decision regarding my character.” His smile almost made Angie melt. Almost.
Angie looked around, seeking help. She caught the eye of the doorman, who wandered over.
“Is everything all right, mademoiselle?”
“This gentleman was just helping me gather my belongings." Angie gave Luc the dirtiest look she could muster. "Right?”
“Of course.” His smile widened as he relinquished her books. “So, is that a no for dinner?” he asked.
“You’ve got that right.” Angie turned on her heel and stomped off toward the hotel doors.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you around then,” Luc called after her.
Angie shouted without turning around. “Not if I see you first!” Then she rushed out into the night. Mentally, she slapped her forehead and cringed. She couldn’t believe she'd just said that. What was she, in the fifth grade? The guy oozed sensuality and made her so nervous she could hardly think straight.
God, she prayed she never ran into him again. She refused to turn her head to see if he was watching her, but the moment the hotel doors closed, she hazarded a glance. Sure enough, Mr. Jon-Luc, but-my-friends-call-me-Luc, was standing there in the lobby of the St. James grinning from ear to ear. She was such a dork.
Angie rushed toward the Metro station. Finally she was far enough away that she could no longer see the man laughing at her. She slowed and took a deep breath, then walked on at a more relaxed gait. After a couple of blocks, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She felt as if she were being watched. She stopped and surveyed the sidewalk behind her, but caught no one’s eye. She picked up her pace anyway.
Angie made it to her room a little after ten, and dumped her load on the table by the door. Her arms ached and she was beyond exhausted. The room smelled as if the sewer had backed up. “Great.”
She grabbed her bag of toiletries and made it down the hall.
When she returned, her face was scrubbed and her teeth brushed. She climbed into bed, and stretched out her long legs and screamed. She jumped out of the bed and threw back the covers. “Shit!” The stench was good and strong now. There, between the sheets at the foot of the bed, was a large pile of dog excrement.
Angie’s feet were covered in it. She pulled the blankets off and tossed them aside, then yanked hard on the top sheet to clean off her feet and the floor before she took another step.
“Who would do such a thing?” She ran over to the window, and cranked it open hoping to air out the room while she stripped the bed.
Then it struck her. She carried the soiled linens downstairs to the lobby and dumped them on the counter. Her finger banged the bell on the desk until the cretin who ran the hotel came out from his room.
“What is this?” Angie yelled.
The man looked at the pile, then back at her. “Mademoiselle?” Then his hand went up to his nose.
“Tormenting me is not the way to convince me to sleep with you!”
“I do not know what you are speaking about. I do not need you for sex. There are plenty of women who find me irresistible.” The short, round man with the greasy hair and a nose covered in blackheads stared back at her indignantly.
Just then, a woman’s head popped out from the door behind him. Her bleached, straw-like hair a mess, she held a towel around her naked body while she gave Angie the hairy eyeball. Yeah, I see the type of woman that finds you irresistible, douche bag. How much are you paying her? “Right. Just give me a clean set of sheets and I’ll be on my way.”
The man disappeared behind the door and was back almost immediately. He tossed the sheets on the desk. “I will have to charge you for laundering.”
“Like hell you will!” Angie snatched up the pile and huffed off.
She returned to her room and found it cold as ice. She ran to shut the window. The odor had dissipated. She made the bed, showered, then crawled in again. Warily. Recalling how her day had begun, she felt that the shitty ending was apropos.
Angie tried to calm herself by breathing deeply and concentrated on relaxing her body. Her mind had almost cleared when an unexpected thought crept into her consciousness. Was someone really following her tonight, or was that just a figment of her imagination brought on by stress?
6
Jon-Luc sat across from Claude in the hotel restaurant. He’d ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a beer, which he had yet to touch. Claude was drinking scotch on the rocks.
Claude picked up a file. “I just got the results from toxicology on the first two women.” Claude flipped to the first page. “Victim number one, Sasha Gusarov, her blood alcohol level .08.”
“Maybe the perp picked her up in a bar and that’s how he got her to go with him?” Jon-Luc suggested.
“Perhaps." Claude turned another page. "Victim number two, Danielle Abney, her blood alcohol level was .10.”
"If Danielle had that high of a conc
entration of alcohol in her system, he had to have helped her walk, maybe even carried her.”
“Witnesses,” Claude guessed.
“Exactly. Start canvassing clubs with the girls’ pictures. They’re stunning, they'll stand out.”
“There are many clubs and bars in the city. That’s a lot of manpower.” Claude looked worried.
“Start with the most exclusive. Girls like this won’t be found in dive bars. They want to be seen. They could get in anywhere, so they’ll pick clubs where only the rich and famous go.”
“Got it.” Claude scribbled something in his notebook.
“Which also means this guy is either rich, famous, or distinctive looking enough to gain entrance himself. It’s even harder for men to gain entrance to—”
Jon-Luc stopped mid-sentence. He noticed a man standing across the room staring at him. He was fifty-ish, with a military cut, and quite pale. The man turned around and walked away. The entire back of his head was missing, and only a bloody mass of tissue remained. It had been blown away as if the man had swallowed his gun.
Jon-Luc grabbed at the St. Michael pendant he wore under his shirt. It was still there. He closed his eyes, then looked back. The man had disappeared. He downed the shot of Jack Daniels and chased it with half his beer.
What the hell was happening? First the incident along the river, now this? It could be he’d let his guard down. After all, he was still mourning Frank. Losing him was a big blow.
That must be it. Seeing the vic was normal; he’d always allowed them to come through when working a case. He never knew what clues he could glean from his visions, but the incident by the Seine still rattled him. That was definitely a first, and he hoped the last time something like that happened. It had scared the shit out of him.
When he refocused on Claude, he found him staring, pen poised, expression expectant. “You were saying?”
“Uh, where was I?” Jon-Luc blinked.
Claude read his notes. “The killer must be rich, famous or at least distinctive.”
“Right. The guys guarding the doors at these clubs are very selective about who they let in. So our UNSUB must stand out in some way, or be well-known himself. If this guy is famous, say an actor the girls are familiar with, that could explain why they're willing to go with him."
“Good thinking.” Claude scratched another note.
“I barely had time to scan the files you sent over. The only thing these women had in common was their profession, but I’ll continue to review them and see if there's an overlap somewhere. I’d like to be there when you interview the friends and colleagues of this latest vic, Genevieve Lamont.”
“That would be much appreciated, my friend,” Claude said.
Just then the waiter arrived with their meals. Luc stared at his filet mignon, his mouth salivating. Everything else flew from his mind as he dug in.
The following afternoon Angie was on the floor pinning the hem on a dress for the show.
“Ouch! Claira, keep still.” She put her finger in her mouth to stanch the bleeding.
“Aren’t you done yet? This is taking too long,” Claira whined in her heavy South African accent.
“That’s because you keep fidgeting,” Angie mumbled.
“I only fidget because you take too long. I need a break.” The woman pulled the dress from Angie’s fingers and stomped off.
Angie rocked back on her heels and swore under her breath. At six-foot-one, Claira Raines was the tallest runway model they had, and the most famous. She also had the worst disposition. At one time she'd been one of the most sought after models in the industry. She’d worked for Chanel, Versace, Stella McCartney, and Emmanuelle Stone.
But her difficult ways had caught up with her and the job offers dried up. That’s how she found herself working for a small vanity design house, and come to think of it, why Angie was there herself. Madame Beauchamp had a kind heart and a willingness to give people the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t listen to idle gossip. In Claira’s case, they weren't rumors. The woman was a bitch with a capital B.
Angie herself was also an undesirable in the fashion world. Her story dated back five years. Fresh out of The Art Institute of New York City with her BA in Fashion Design, she’d landed a position at the famed design house, Emmanuelle Stone, after her internship. The designers were right up her alley, edgy stuff, sort of like Alexander McQueen meets Gwen Stefani.
She’d assisted Lillianna Stone, who along with partner Daphne Emmanuelle, had branched out on their own in 2001 to rave reviews. Angie was having the time of her life, going to fashion shows and scouting out all the latest trends to take back to her new boss.
She’d met and married famed British fashion photographer, Stephan Reese, after a whirlwind courtship. Her life was perfect. At only twenty-three she was living her dream. Lillianna had been a wonderful mentor, even asking to see Angie’s sketches. She had borrowed Angie's portfolio and promised to talk to Daphne to see if they could use any of her designs.
Days turned into weeks, while Angie patiently waited for an answer. After a month and a half, six excruciatingly long weeks, Angie decided it was time to confront Lillianna about their decision. When she did, her boss apologized, said she didn’t want her to give up hope. That she really did like her designs, but her partner didn’t think they fit the direction their line was going in at the moment.
She urged Angie to continue sketching her designs and when she had some new ideas, to bring them straight to her and she would see what she could do. Angie choked back her tears and thanked her boss for her support. In the next few months, Angie worked all her off hours on entirely new designs.
After work one Friday night, she stopped by Stephan’s studio to pick him up for dinner. They had reservations at a restaurant in SoHo with friends. She let herself in the back door and stood quietly while she watched him work. He was shooting someone’s spring line for Vogue. He’d been working late every night that week so the photo's would be in by deadline.
The man was a genius, a true artist, and her heart filled with admiration as she watched him. By stroking the egos of the most difficult models, he was able to glean the most fantastic shots. That’s how he’d made a name for himself in the highly competitive field. He must have felt her presence, because he stopped and turned toward her. A big smile broke his serious expression, then he walked over and kissed her. “Hey, love, almost done here.”
“Good, it's almost eight and we'll have to hurry.”
He saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he turned back and addressed the model. “Okay, love, let’s give it another go. Drop your chin. Little more. Perfect!” Click. Click.
Angie wandered over toward the dressing room and began going through the dresses hanging on the rack. Something wasn’t right. She stared at one of the garments. Finally she pulled it out and hung it facing her to get the full effect. “No.” It was one of hers, even down to the black leather straps and the satin fishnet across the décolletage.
Frantically she began pulling out dress after dress and holding it up. “No, no. No!”
"Ang, what's wrong?" Stephan grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.
“These are my designs!"
"Don’t be ridiculous, you said they didn’t want them."
"Look, Stephan, just look." She held the dress up for him to inspect. He looked at her, then back at the dress.
"It does resemble one of your sketches."
"Resemble? It’s exact, right down to the red and black piping!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Come on, now, love.” He wrapped her in his arms. “There must be an excellent explanation. Maybe they were going to surprise you.”
“Stephan. Stephan!” The model yelled across the room.
“Shite, I forgot about Claira,” he mumbled, then turned around.
“This is all very touching, but I’m tired and want to go. I have plans tonight and you’re making me late with all this.” She waved her hands aroun
d.
“Right. Okay, I think I have enough. You were great, love. You can go.”
The woman stomped off toward the dressing room.
The minute the door closed behind her, Angie said, “Claira Raines is such a bitch. How can you be so nice to her?”
“It’s the job, love.” He kissed her forehead. “Now let’s get going. Zack and Nathan are waiting for us. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
But as the evening wore on, Angie’s anger mounted. No matter how much wine she drank, or her husband’s calming words, she couldn’t escape that scene in Lilliana’s office. She’d told her that her designs weren’t good enough and Angie had actually thanked her!
After Stephan had fallen asleep that night, she slipped out of bed and rifled through the pockets of his pants until she found the keys to his studio. She slipped out of the apartment and hailed a cab. She just wanted to look at the designs one more time to be sure. Maybe he was right and she was mistaken.
Wrong. They were her designs. She stomped into the darkroom and found Stephan’s scotch. She needed some liquid fortitude to help her think. What could be a simple explanation for her designs being stolen? There was none. She poured herself two fingers and downed it. Sitting on his stool she stared straight ahead. What was she going to do?
Her eyes came to rest on a pair of scissors. She snatched them up along with the bottle of scotch. The next morning she awoke to a hysterical Stephan standing over her.
“What have you done, you’ve fucking ruined me!” He snatched the scissors out of her hand.
“Huh?” Angie looked around. She was lying on top of a pile of shredded material, the empty scotch bottle next to her. She didn’t remember shredding the garments, but apparently she had. The scissors were in her hand. “Shit.”
“Shit? That’s all you have to say? When news of this gets out, who is going to trust me with their designs? Tell me, who?”
She rubbed her temples, she had a splitting headache and her husband’s yelling wasn’t helping one bit. “They were mine and they stole them.” Angie couldn’t muster up enough energy to yell back.
