Dorothy Howell

by Haley Randolph 03 - Shoulder Bags; Shootings (v5)

  My heart started beating faster again—but for an entirely different reason.

  “It had me fooled for a minute,” I said. “I’m dying for one of those.”

  “Why don’t you get it?” he asked.

  The thought raced through my head for a fleeting second, but I couldn’t do it.

  “I’m addicted to the real thing,” I told him.

  He nodded, though I’m not sure he knew what I meant.

  “Luke Warner,” he said, as he stepped forward and offered his hand.

  I took it. A wave of heat ran up my arm as I introduced myself.

  “Shopping?” he asked.

  This didn’t seem like the best time to tell him that I was there searching for a murderer, so I just nodded.

  Luke gestured down the block. “I’m here for a business meeting.”

  We couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say, just stared at each other—sort of like in tenth grade—then both realized we were staring and not talking—really like tenth grade—and we looked away.

  “Well, I’d better go,” I said, backing up.

  Luke took a step toward me and nodded toward the Sinful purse in the display window.

  “Searching the shops for a real one of those?” he asked.

  “It’s a Sinful,” I said.

  Luke grinned. He had a killer grin. It reached his eyes which, I realized, were an incredible shade of green.

  “Sinful, huh? Sounds intriguing.” He said it in that deep, seductive, Barry White voice men use when they want to cause a woman’s toes to curl.

  My toes curled a little.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, which sounded really lame, but hearing the Barry White voice caused my brain to switch to half-function, sometimes.

  I gave him a little wave and hurried away. At the corner I glanced back.

  Luke was watching me.

  “Okay, people, gather around,” Shannon called as she waved the employees toward her in the breakroom.

  While everyone else formed up in a semicircle ready to start their stretches, I punched in, locked up my purse, and breezed past them.

  Shannon gave me major stink-eye.

  “I’m on a special project, remember?” I called.

  I gave her my I’m-better-than-you eyebrow bob and I left the breakroom.

  So far, those few seconds were the only thing I liked about the special project Jeanette had put me on and I’d agreed to.

  Note to self: stick with my say-no-to-volunteering-policy regardless.

  In the stock room I saw that the mountain of blue jeans on the work table and the wall of boxes that still held hundreds of dozens of pairs remained just as I’d left them last night. No one had come in on the morning or afternoon shifts and put a single tag on a single pair of jeans.

  Jeanette really had given this project to me, only me.

  I hate my life.

  Now, I hate denim, too.

  I got to work tagging jeans, wanting to get the project finished and these next few hours of my life over and done with. I pushed hard, staying focused, minimizing my movements, concentrating on not wasting a single second. Time flew by. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed.

  Crap.

  I pulled out my phone and called Marcie.

  “Come by the store,” I said when she answered her cell. “I’ve got something really cool to tell you.”

  “You’re getting a lunch hour tonight?” she asked.

  “I’m on a special project.”

  Nobody had specifically said what my hours would be for this project. But since I’d single-handedly taken on the monumental responsibility of ensuring that the Holt’s Blue Jeans Blowout actually had jeans on the shelves, surely I was entitled to something more than my usual fifteen-minute break.

  “Cool. Catch you later,” Marcie said, and we hung up.

  Another half hour dragged by—I knew because I checked my watch every ninety seconds—and I figured Marcie had to have arrived at the store by now. I went to the breakroom.

  She’d been to the store a few times and this was where we always met. She wasn’t there yet and I should have gone back into the stock room, but oh well. She’d be along soon.

  I got some cash from my wallet and fed it into the vending machines, then sat down at one of the tables, M&M’s, Snickers bar, and soda in hand, and started flipping through a month-old copy of People magazine. Marcie came through the door a few minutes later.

  She sat down across the table from me and glanced around the room, taking in the signs and posters that are plastered all over the walls.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the customer satisfaction thermometer chart.

  “Some contest,” I said, pushing the M&M’s closer to her.

  “Looks like you’re doing pretty bad.”

  I glanced over and saw that the band of red had actually crept upward, back into beach towel range. Wow, how had that happened so fast?

  “So what’s the big news?” Marcie asked.

  “I went to the Fashion District today,” I said.

  She looked hurt. “Without me?”

  Shopping for knockoffs in Santee Alley was one of our all-time favorite things to do. We had a fabulous time selecting which bags we thought our customers would like. Most of the vendors knew us now, so haggling had been cut to a minimum—which was sort of disappointing—and we always left with huge shopping bags filled with dozens of purses.

  Who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon that way?

  I could see that Marcie was disappointed that I’d gone without her—not that I blamed her, of course—but I couldn’t tell her the real reason I was there. No way could I get into the whole Tiffany–Ed thing with her.

  But I could definitely get into the whole Luke thing.

  “I was just scouting things out,” I said, “for when we start having our purse parties again.”

  Marcie helped herself to a handful of my M&M’s, which seemed to make everything all right for her.

  “I found a Sinful bag,” I reported.

  Her eyes got bigger. “Was it—”

  “A knockoff,” I said.

  She looked as crestfallen as I’d felt in the shop today.

  “You didn’t get it, did you,” Marcie said. She hadn’t even asked it as a question. She already knew the answer, as a best friend would.

  “I was tempted,” I admitted. “I met a really hot guy there.”

  Marcie’s eyes widened. “You’re just now telling me this? I’ve been here for five whole minutes and only now you’re sharing this?”

  “His name is Luke,” I said, and felt my stomach start to tingle a bit. “He’s tall and has a great build, and the most gorgeous green eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

  Marcie frowned. “What about Ty?”

  “Who?”

  “Haley…,” she said in that singsong way that always brings me back to reality.

  I hate reality.

  “Look, I’m not saying that anything is going on between Luke and me,” I said. “I’m just saying that I met him and he’s really good looking. That’s all.”

  “When’s Ty coming home?” she asked.

  “Not until next week,” I said. “Want to go to a really great party on Saturday?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Remember that girl last year who had that great job interview at that cool place and I got her that totally hot outfit to wear?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Marcie said, decoding my words as only a best friend can.

  “She invited me to an awesome party on the Queen Mary. The record label is launching a new artist,” I said. “They’ve rented the whole ship for the event.”

  “What are you going to wear?” Marcie asked.

  Marcie has priorities, just like me.

  “Something I got in London, I think,” I told her. “You should wear that print dress we bought in tha
t shop on Melrose.”

  Marcie needed only a couple of seconds to recall exactly which dress I was talking about.

  “Perfect,” she declared. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you could find that Sinful bag to take?”

  Marcie had read my mind again, as only a best friend can.

  We talked for a while longer, making plans for the party, then Marcie left. I couldn’t face a stock room full of denim jeans yet so I got another Snickers bar from the vending machine—just to keep up my energy, of course—and started flipping through People again.

  My mind wandered.

  I thought about the hours I’d spent in the Fashion District today, the streets, stores, and vendors I’d checked out in my search for Ed Buckley.

  Luke floated into my thoughts.

  I pushed him out.

  Maybe Ed wasn’t in the Fashion District at all. Maybe Tiffany had scoured the place and realized he simply wasn’t there. Where else would she have looked? Where else should I look?

  I needed to review all the info I’d gathered.

  Luke floated into my thoughts once more. I’d met him in the Fashion District surrounded by great fashions. I wondered if he talked about clothes after making love.

  Yeah, okay, I knew that was bad. Ty was my official boyfriend now—though maybe I wouldn’t be thinking about Luke if Ty was actually here rather than half a world away. But still, I shouldn’t be thinking about Luke. I should be thinking about Ty.

  No, really, I should be thinking about Ed Buckley.

  I searched through the discarded magazines on the counter by the microwave and found an old flyer announcing a Holt’s blood drive—when had that come in?—got a pen from my purse and sat down again.

  I wrote down everything I knew and everything I’d been told about Ed, and what it might mean.

  Maybe it meant nothing, I thought. Maybe I should be thinking outside the box.

  The picture I’d seen of him that was taken during his old life in Charleston showed him on a boat. Should I be checking for him at a marina instead?

  He’d been suspected of drug smuggling. Would he find connections for that in the Fashion District? Somewhere else?

  Tiffany might have known some tiny scrap of info about him that led her in a totally different direction. Could I figure it out, too?

  I sat back and looked at the list.

  There was nothing to do but go back to the Fashion District again tomorrow.

  Maybe I’d find Luke—I mean, Ed—there, after all.

  CHAPTER 22

  Shops in the Fashion District opened by 10 A.M. and I was there the next morning when the doors opened. I had no clue how long it would take to actually find Ed Buckley, but I was in it for the long haul—or until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Shoppers filled the sidewalks on Main Street as I strolled along, taking in the warm sunshine.

  There were things in the District that you might not expect to find, like lots of guys on bicycles. Bikes in heavy traffic on narrow streets didn’t usually mix well, but that didn’t seem to stop them.

  Some of the guys sported yellow shirts and helmets. They were the clean and safe team and the safe team officers who patrolled the area to help out with questions or directions. Other guys just rode bikes around, swerving in and out of traffic and disappearing into alleys.

  Almost all of the buildings showed their considerable age. Though some had been refurbished, others hadn’t; they displayed only crumbling remnants of their past glory when craftsmanship and workmanship counted more than profits.

  Last night I’d checked the Internet and zeroed in on the section of the District that specialized in accessories. I turned west on Eleventh Street, hoping I’d pick up the vibe of a Sinful bag somewhere.

  I have a sixth sense about purses.

  Since it seemed that, so far, I’d had no sixth sense about locating Ed Buckley, I figured why not pursue the handbag of my dreams. Maybe one would lead me to the other.

  When I turned the corner onto Main Street, I saw Luke Warner walking toward me. He looked way hot today—hotter than yesterday, if that were possible.

  I got a whole different sort of vibe—and it had nothing to do with handbags. Yeah, okay, I knew I shouldn’t feel that way, but there it is.

  “Are you following me?” Luke asked, giving me a playful grin as he stopped in front of me on the sidewalk.

  “Only if you are sporting a Sinful handbag,” I told him. “And then I might kill you for it.”

  He chuckled and glanced around. “Wouldn’t be the first time that had happened—especially here.”

  I followed his gaze to the tall old buildings that lined the street, some with open windows on the top floors.

  “I wonder what, exactly, goes on up there,” I said. “I figure it probably isn’t legal.”

  “It’s a twilight economy here,” Luke said. “The largest collection of counterfeit fashion merchandise in the country and cash-only transactions.”

  When Marcie and I came to the Fashion District to buy bags for our purse parties, we usually found everything we needed in Santee Alley, we dealt with vendors we knew, and were out of there in a few hours. After spending most of yesterday and this morning here, I could feel the under-current of a completely different social and economic system.

  “With around a thousand shops and merchants from Pakistan, Vietnam, the Middle East, Mexico, Egypt, and lots of other places, things happen fast,” Luke said. “The Koreans have a big stake here now, but who knows how long that will last.”

  “Are you here for another business meeting?” I asked.

  Luke shrugged. “I own a couple of places down here.”

  “Stores?” I asked.

  “Buildings,” Luke said. “It pays to subdivide the space. Rents can run high. Five thousand a month for three hundred square feet in the good blocks. Up to fifteen thousand a month in the expensive areas. I’m down here every day to keep an eye on things.”

  I got that gooey feeling in my stomach. I know my official boyfriend owns a whole chain of department stores, but hearing that Luke owned several buildings in the Fashion District and was down here ready to mix it up to protect his turf, if need be, seemed a lot more appealing than Ty sitting at the Holt’s corporate office reading spreadsheets and listening to Sarah Covington’s lame-ass marketing schemes.

  “So what are you doing down here again today?” Luke asked.

  “Still shopping,” I said.

  “You know, I can get you one of those purses you’re looking for,” he said.

  I froze. I thought for a moment that I hadn’t heard him correctly, or maybe I’d been struck dead and gone to Heaven.

  “The Sinful bag. Right?” Luke asked.

  Oh my God. Luke had actually paid attention to what I told him yesterday, he remembered it, understood how important it was, and now was offering to get it for me. I must have gone to Heaven because this sort of thing doesn’t happen on Earth.

  “You can do that?” I asked, the words barely coming out of my mouth. “You can get me a Sinful? A real Sinful?”

  “Sure.”

  I just stared at him. Jeez, it seemed too good to be true.

  “Can you really pull this off?” I asked.

  “I always deliver,” Luke said, giving me a grin that curled my toes. He pulled out his cell phone. “Give me your phone number.”

  We traded numbers, then just stood there staring at each other, a duplicate of yesterday’s tenth grade moment. The silence screamed louder than words.

  “You know, this isn’t such a safe place,” Luke said, his grin suddenly morphing into something between concern and fear. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I come here a lot,” I said. “I’m okay with it.”

  Luke stepped closer. Heat from his body wafted over me. I smelled his aftershave. My stomach got really gooey.

  “No, you should go home,” he said quietly.

  “Really, I’m fine here,” I told him.

  Luke eased c
loser. “You’re in over your head here, Haley. Please. Leave everything to me.”

  Okay, that was weird.

  But it was nice to think he cared about my safety—really nice. My gooey stomach warmed up considerably.

  “Where are you parked?” Luke asked. “I’ll walk you back to your car.”

  Suddenly, patrolling the Fashion District looking for Ed Buckley didn’t seem like much of a priority. Besides, I could watch for him in the crowd on the way to my car.

  We left Main Street and walked east on Twelfth Street. I eyed every face and glanced into the shops we passed.

  “Almost all of the merchandise down here comes in through the Port of Los Angeles in Long Beach, about a half hour from here, in container ships. Very little of it is inspected. The fashions here get knocked off and are put out for sale in Santee Alley in about three weeks, while Macy’s has to wait about six months to get theirs,” Luke said. “The manufacturers have unregistered factories operating outside of California law.”

  “Aren’t they worried about the police?” I asked.

  “Have you noticed the teenage boys on bikes who ride through the District? They’re spotters. They watch for the cops,” Luke said. “Lookouts are posted outside the LAPD’s Central Station, just a few blocks away. They know which cars belong to the inspectors. When they pull away, cell phones ring all over the area and the place clears out.”

  I stole a quick look up at the top floors of the buildings we passed and wondered if people worked there, and what sort of conditions they faced each day. Maybe they’d sewn the two thousand pairs of jeans I had been putting tags on for the Holt’s sale.

  I saw no faces at the windows. I figured the seamstresses, if they were up there, weren’t allowed to get up from their sewing machines. Occasionally I saw fluorescent lights burning in the ceilings, so I knew somebody used the rooms for something.

  It creeped me out a little, made me think I was being watched.

  Luke walked with me all the way to Santee Alley, then up the stairs to the rooftop parking garage off Maple where I’d left my Honda. He got that concerned look on his face for a minute and I thought maybe he was going to caution me about not coming back to the Fashion District, but he didn’t.