Dorothy Howell

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

  He walked over to the work table and stopped in front of me, looking calm and composed, as always.

  “Haley,” he said, as he drew himself up a little and straightened his shoulders. “I forgive you.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Emily broke up with me,” Doug said. “I now know the pain I inflicted upon you when I broke off our relationship. I understand your desire to cling to me, to go to extreme measures to have me in your life again. I’m going through that myself right now, so I understand how you feel.”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  “I’m taking a page from my own playbook. I’m letting Emily go,” Doug said. “I hope you, too, can find the strength to finally let me go.”

  Doug left the stock room.

  Oh my God. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe what Doug had just said—or that I’d stood there too stunned to say anything.

  Okay, that was it. I wasn’t taking any more crap from anybody today—and I was starting with Doug. I threw jeans and tags across the stock room and marched out the doors onto the sales floor.

  I looked up and down the aisles. Where was he? He couldn’t have gotten far. I was going to tell him, once and for all, that he meant nothing to me, that I was glad we broke up—I had wanted to break up with him first—and that he was a complete idiot.

  I stomped down the aisles to the front of the store. All eight of the checkout registers were open, customers were stacked ten deep in line, loaded down with merchandise. People were talking loud. Kids were running around. Babies were crying. I spotted Doug outside, crossing the parking lot. I started after him.

  “What kind of service is this!” somebody yelled.

  I froze. A man standing at the checkout was waving a package of men’s black socks and screaming at the clerk.

  Oh my God, it was Christy.

  “I stood in this line for twenty minutes! Twenty minutes! Just to return these socks!” he screamed. “And now you tell me you won’t take them back!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but as I explained, all returns are handled at the customer service booth at the rear of the store,” Christy said sweetly. “That’s our policy.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your policy!” the man shouted. He slammed his fist down on the counter. “I want you to give me a refund! Now!”

  Christy’s eyes got big and she shrank back from him. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir, but it’s just not possible.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s not possible, you idiot! You’ve got money in that cash register! Open it and give me my refund!”

  Christy gulped. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I would if I could, but—”

  “I’m sick of your excuses!” the man screamed. “I want—”

  “Hey!” I shouted and ran over. “You don’t get to talk to her that way! You don’t get to treat anybody in our store that way! You don’t come in here shouting, disturbing our other customers, and expecting us to make an exception for you that we don’t make for anybody else! We don’t do business that way! And if that doesn’t suit you, you can go shop somewhere else!”

  “I’ll do that!” the man said, and stomped away.

  I watched him go out the front door, my heart pounding, my palms sweating.

  Damn, that felt good.

  Then I realized the store had fallen silent. Nobody talked. No babies cried. No kids ran through the aisles.

  I turned and saw everybody staring at me. Every customer, every checkout clerk, every sales person on the floor. Shannon glared at me. So did Jeanette.

  Oh, crap.

  I’d searched every store in Los Angeles and the surrounding areas numerous times for a Sinful handbag and had repeatedly come up empty. I figured I’d have to face the fact that I simply would not find one in time for tonight’s big party.

  I hate it when I have to face facts.

  Especially facts I don’t like.

  I walked along Pico Boulevard in the Fashion District amid the crowds of early morning shoppers, peering into shops, stores, and alleyways, as usual, not spotting Ed Buckley, as usual. I hoped not finding Ed wasn’t a fact I’d have to face also, but it wasn’t looking so good.

  Of course, that wasn’t the end of things not looking so good in my life right now. After the way I’d blasted that customer at Holt’s yesterday—even though he deserved it—I probably wouldn’t have my job much longer. After Ty came home next week and we had our “talk,” I probably wouldn’t have an official boyfriend, either.

  I still hadn’t heard from Luke. And just why he’d come to Holt’s that night to comfort me, only to ignore me afterwards I couldn’t figure out.

  The morning seemed warmer than usual—or maybe I was more out of sorts than usual. I stopped on the corner of Pico and Wall Street and looked around.

  I couldn’t keep living like this. I had to focus on something positive. Something I could control.

  Maybe I’d never find Ed down here. Maybe I’d never see Luke again. Maybe Ty would break up with me.

  But there was no reason for me to ever want for a special handbag again.

  Over the past few weeks, a number of people had suggested I start my own handbag line. The thought had stuck to the lining of my brain like cellulite on thighs. I decided to check it out.

  I hoofed it up the street, crossed Olympic and plunged into the Textile District. I’d driven through here in my search for Ed, but seeing it up close was way better.

  I ducked in and out of stores along the street, marveling at the fabrics. These were different from the limited amount of material Holt’s stocked. The bolts of fabric were presented differently, too. In Holt’s, a few yards of material was wrapped around a long, rectangle piece of cardboard. Here, the fabric was wound around long round rolls.

  Every color, every texture imaginable was here. Every kind of trim, beading, and thread a designer could want. Marlene, who ran the sewing department at Holt’s, would probably lose what was left of her mind if she saw all of this.

  The Textile District was just as busy as the Fashion District. Crowded sidewalks, trucks double-parked, handcarts loaded with merchandise pushed from store to store.

  My imagination went crazy. Seeing all the fabric possibilities, gorgeous handbags started to bloom in my head. Maybe I could really do this. Maybe I could really design my own line of purses.

  The scene flashed in my head. Me at the helm of a handbag empire—in a fabulous office, wearing a fabulous outfit—surrounded by dozens of assistants, all waiting for me to come up with the design for the next handbag to take the fashion world by storm. Me at Fashion Week, being hailed as the latest fashion genius. My picture on the cover of Elle, In Style, Vogue magazines. Everyone—absolutely everyone—clamoring for the next Haley bag.

  I turned onto Ninth Street and checked out the fabrics displayed on the sidewalk as I headed west. The Textile District was big and I didn’t want to miss anything.

  That’s how we fashion icons do things.

  Ahead of me on the sidewalk, a guy pushed a handcart loaded with three rolls of fabric wrapped in black plastic and tied on the ends. I knew it was fabric because I’d seen store clerks ripping them open in shops all over the Textile District. I decided to follow him, check out the new fabric when it was unloaded in the shop. Maybe I’d be the first to see it, the first to buy it, the first to turn it into a gorgeous handbag.

  At the corner of Ninth Street, the guy kept going. He crossed Santee Street.

  Okay, that was weird. All the fabric shops are in the opposite direction.

  He kept going. I kept following. At the corner of Ninth and Los Angeles Street, he glanced around.

  I saw the side of his face.

  Oh my God. It was Ed Buckley.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ed kept walking, pushing the cart loaded with the three fabric bolts in front of him. I followed at what I considered a discreet distance of about a half block. He turned north on Spring Street, then left on Seventh.


  He seemed pretty calm for a guy wanted by the FBI, a guy suspected in two murders and the disappearances of two people. No shades, no hat pulled low, no attempt at any sort of a disguise.

  I couldn’t imagine where he’d be headed with three bolts of fabric. The shops of the Textile District were way behind us now. When we crossed Broadway, I realized we were in the Jewelry District.

  Okay, this was weird.

  Even though we were only a few blocks from the fashion and textile districts, this area was definitely more upscale. Lots of well-dressed people on the street. BMW, Mercedes, Lexus autos parked at the curbs. The streets were lined almost exclusively with jewelry stores that occupied the ground level of mostly old high-rise buildings.

  At the corner of Hill and Seventh sat what looked like a grand movie palace from about a hundred years ago, with lots of stone work, a marquee over the entrance, and a dome on top of the building. According to the lettering on the marquee, the place housed a jewelry store.

  Ed pushed his cart past the front of the building and disappeared through a side door.

  I stopped at the corner. Why would Ed take bolts of fabric into a jewelry store? Maybe the jeweler wanted it for a display case. Or maybe some crazy old rich lady insisted on buying fabric to match the tiara she wanted for her poodle.

  I glanced at the buildings along the street. Most of them were fifteen to twenty floors high. Unlike the buildings in the Fashion District, the windows here were shut tight. Still, I felt exposed standing on the street corner, like anybody anywhere could be watching me.

  I crossed the street and went inside a jewelry store on the corner. The huge open space held dozens of small booths where individual merchants sold their bling. Trays of loose, unset precious gems gleamed in the bright light. Diamonds sparkled. Gold and silver glittered.

  Should I call Shuman? I wrestled with the question as I stood by the window, my gaze glued to the theater building Ed had gone into. Something nagged at my memory but I couldn’t put a mental finger on it.

  Maybe it was Ed himself, I realized. Honestly, he didn’t look like a criminal. He looked like a businessman, much as Virginia had described him from his days back in Charleston.

  Would a criminal walk boldly through downtown Los Angeles, out in the open for everyone to see?

  I thought back to the morning Tiffany had been murdered in the Holt’s parking lot. Yeah, I’d seen Ed there. No doubt about it. But I hadn’t seen him confront Tiffany. I hadn’t seen him shoot her, dump her body into the trunk of Ada’s Mercedes.

  What if he was there for some other reason? What if he’d come to warn Tiffany that someone was after her? What if he’d witnessed her murder?

  Maybe the FBI was wrong about Ed killing their undercover agent. I had no idea how much real—if any—evidence they had against him. The newspaper reporter in Charleston that Ben had talked to didn’t seem to think there was anything to the story.

  Yeah, okay, it looked as if Ed had faked his own death. But what if he’d just done it—with his wife’s knowledge—to collect the insurance money? Or what if he’d had enough of Charleston and Tiffany’s family, and had simply run out on his wife and kids?

  Something weird was going on here. Why would Ed leave his prominent, high-profile life in Charleston to come to the L.A. Textile District to sell fabric? If he’d been selling drugs, like everybody suspected, he sure wouldn’t rake in that kind of cash peddling buttons, trim, and material to fashion designers. His lifestyle would take a major hit.

  Jeez, Ed must have really hated his life back in Charleston.

  Ed came out of the building across the street pushing the cart with the three bolts of fabric still on it. I could see that the black plastic had been ripped open on one of them.

  I waited until he’d gotten a little ahead of me, then followed. Ed moved at a steady pace. No looking behind him, no darting from doorway to doorway. Definitely not a man in a hurry or a man who had something to hide.

  We took the same route back to the Textile District. Ed wheeled the cart into a shop. I noted the name and address as I walked past.

  The guy looked legit to me, so maybe he was. I’d been wrongly accused of murder myself. Not a great feeling. I sure didn’t want to do that to Ed—or anybody.

  It was kind of weird that he’d taken three bolts of fabric all the way to the Jewelry District for no apparent reason, and only one of them had been opened. But maybe whoever his customer was in that jewelry shop had taken a look at the first roll he’d opened, loved it, and didn’t want to look at the others.

  Ed probably appreciated the quick decision the jewelry customer had made since, according to Ben, rumor in Charleston had it that his wife had a thing for diamonds. If Ed had really just run out on his family back there, he probably wanted nothing to do with anything related to them, especially jewelry, which must have cost as much as some of the drugs he was suspected of smuggling.

  Hang on a minute.

  I spun around and looked back down the block to the shop Ed had disappeared into.

  Luke had told me the other day that almost all the merchandise in the districts came in through the Port of Los Angeles in container ships, just a short drive away in Long Beach, and how almost none of it was inspected.

  What if the jewelry rumors in Charleston weren’t just rumors? What if Ed’s wife always dripped in bling because he was smuggling diamonds?

  Oh my God. Could it be true?

  I pictured the scheme in my head: diamonds arriving in the cargo ships hidden inside bolts of fabric; the bolts transported along with tons of other fabric to Ed’s shop; Ed simply wheeling them to the Jewelry District.

  Ed stepped out of the shop and stood on the sidewalk. He turned and stared straight at me.

  I gasped and took off.

  I rounded the corner and ran down Maple, then ducked into Santee Alley. I glanced back.

  Oh my God. Was that Ed on the sidewalk behind me? Was he following me? I couldn’t tell for sure.

  The Alley was packed with shoppers. I wiggled through the crowd, pounded up the stairs, and got my car from the rooftop parking lot. I peeled out onto Maple, cut around a double-parked truck, and headed for the freeway.

  I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and punched in Shuman’s number. His voicemail picked up.

  Damn. There really is never a cop around when you need one.

  As I merged onto the westbound 10, I left Shuman a message explaining that I’d found Ed Buckley. I gave him the address of the fabric shop on Ninth Street and the jewelry store at Hill and Seventh.

  “I think he’s smuggling diamonds inside bolts of fabric,” I said. “I’m running errands and going to the Queen Mary tonight, so call me as soon as you get this message.”

  I stared out the windshield at the traffic and wondered if I should do something more.

  Since I hadn’t connected with Shuman, maybe I should call the FBI agents who’d questioned me at the Federal Building. With one eye on the bumper of the SUV in front of me, I dug through my purse for the business card Special Agent Jordan—or maybe it was Paulson—had given me, but didn’t find it. I could have made some calls and tracked them down but, really, I didn’t like those guys.

  Another minute passed as I drove farther away from downtown. I felt kind of weird about just leaving, knowing a murderer was in a fabric shop on Ninth Street. But I guess Ed wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been there for months, apparently, since Virginia spotted him last fall, and even after murdering Tiffany, he’d stayed there. And, really, if he suddenly made a break for the Mexican border, what could I do?

  Anyway, I didn’t want to be there when the cops showed up. I didn’t want Ed to know I was involved with his apprehension. The last thing I needed was another guy out there somewhere with a grudge against me. I’d just gotten clear of Kirk Keegan.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. Why hadn’t Shuman called me back yet? I felt a little miffed. I mean, jeez, I’d found the guy that the FBI on two coasts was
looking for and cracked an international smuggling ring. A simple “thank you” would be nice.

  I shook it off. I’d called Shuman with the info I had on Ed’s location. I’d done all I could do.

  No, wait. I needed to handle one more thing.

  I picked up my phone again and punched in Ben Oliver’s number. I’d promised him an exclusive on Tiffany’s murder. He didn’t pick up, so I left him a message much the same as I’d left for Shuman, except for the part about running errands, going to the Queen Mary tonight, and asking him to call me back.

  So now I officially had done everything I could do. I had a smoking-hot, kick-ass party to get ready for tonight. I was meeting Marcie at our favorite spa, then we were going to her place to get ready together.

  I turned off my phone and tossed it into my purse.

  The one cool thing about going to Holt’s today was that I wouldn’t have to stay and work a shift. I could pick up my paycheck, such as it was, chat with friends, if I wanted, talk on my cell phone on the sales floor, and nobody could say anything about it.

  I’d scheduled tonight off when Jay Jax had first texted me the details about the party and nothing—absolutely nothing—would keep me from going. Certainly not the huge mound of blue jeans in the stock room that still needed to be tagged.

  I swung into a parking space and hurried into the store. I intended to be in and out in a flash. Marcie and I had appointments in a few minutes for a mani and pedi, and I was getting an updo.

  As much as I’d enjoy chatting up friends and talking on my cell on the sales floor—provided Shannon was looking, of course—I decided to keep my head down so nobody would notice me. I needed to get in and out quick. I would be invisible.

  “There she is,” somebody muttered as I walked through the big glass doors.

  All the clerks at the checkout registers glared at me.

  Okay, that was weird.

  I hurried through the store. Every sales person on the floor turned and gave me stink-eye as I headed for the rear of the store.

  Jeez, what did I do?