Alibi in High Heels (13 page)

As I was throwing my hair dryer into the bag (lesson number two - travel with your own appliances to foreign countries) my cell rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. My heart did a little leap, praying it was Ramirez.

"Hello?" I asked, suddenly breathless.

"Maddie, it's Felix."

"Oh." I felt my entire body slump with disappointment.

"Well, don't sound so thrilled."

"Sorry, I was expecting... someone else."

"He still hasn't called, huh?"

I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "How do you even know who I was expecting?"

He sighed. "Maddie, I saw the look on his face. And believe me, if I'd been your boyfriend and walked in on that scene, I'm not sure I would have called either."

"Gee, thanks. I feel much better now."

"Where are you?"

"In my room. Packing. I'm going to Milan to see Gisella's agent. As if it's any of your business," I couldn't help adding.

"You're still upset about yesterday."

"What tipped you off?"

Again with the sigh. "Look, that's actually why I called. I wanted to apologize."

I raised an eyebrow at the phone. Felix apologizing? Unheard of.

"Go on," I prompted.

"I was out of line yesterday. I certainly didn't mean to bust things up between you and... him."

Wow. That had actually sounded sincere. "Thanks," I said, so shocked I didn't even have a snide comeback ready for him.

"But, I hope you'll forgive me for saying that you could do a lot better."

And then he had to go and ruin it.

"Excuse me?"

"He's a bit on the caveman side, isn't he, love? I mean the whole protect the little woman thing."

I put one hand on my hip. "He cares. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Yes. So much so that you have to sneak off while he threatens to lock you up. Are you his girlfriend or his ward?"

"He happens to worry about me," I said, my volume rising. Maybe I wouldn't have been so defensive if a tiny part of me didn't almost agree with Felix. "That's what people who love each other do. They protect each other."

"But does he trust you? Isn't that a part of loving someone?"

I opened my mouth to speak but realized I didn't have response for that. Dammit, why did Felix have to start making sense now?

"Look, my love life has nothing to do with you," I shot back instead.

He was quiet a moment. Then in a low, almost sad voice said, "No. No, I suppose it doesn't."

"And for your information, Ramirez happens to be
just
my type. I happen to like the caveman thing, okay?"

"If you say so."

"Yes, I say so!" I yelled into the phone.

He was quiet. The only sound the panting of my own worked-up breath.

"Are you done apologizing?" I shouted.

I thought I heard Felix do a little chuckle on the other end. "I think that about sums up my apology, yes."

"Good. I have to go." I hit the off button, not waiting for Felix's response, and threw my phone on the bed.

I hated to admit just how much the call had gotten to me. What I'd said was true - I knew Ramirez cared about me, worried about me. And most of the time, when he wasn't infuriating the heck out of me, I appreciated it. Who didn't want someone to care about them, right?

But Felix was right. Ramirez didn't trust me. He never had. Ever since we'd met, I'd always been the cute, slightly ditzy blonde who needed his protection. As much as I'd tried to convince him otherwise in the time we'd known each other, I had a bad feeling that was how he still saw me. Granted, I did have an uncanny ability to shove my heel clad-foot firmly in my mouth, and, I'll admit, I did seem to be a magnet for trouble at times. So, I could see why he didn't always have
complete
faith in my abilities.

But a little trust might be nice now and then.

Only as I stared at my phone sitting silently on the floral duvet, I realized that I didn't trust him either. He asked me to trust in the legal system, to trust Moreau, to trust that, with Ramirez here, I wouldn't end up in jail. And what had I done? Gone off to London on a wild goose chase that had ended in me lip-locked with Felix, of all people.

No wonder he wasn't calling.

As if on cue, my cell chirped to life.

I dove for it, hitting the on button without even looking at the readout.

"Jack?" I asked, my heart leaping into my throat.

"He still hasn't called, huh?" Dana's voice answered.

I gulped down my disappointment. "No."

"Sorry, hon. But, give him a little time. I'm sure he will."

If only I was as sure.

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I'm done with my fitting and on my way to the hotel. Give me ten minutes to pack a bag and I'm ready to go."

I nodded at the phone. "Okay, meet you in the lobby in twenty."

I hung up, flopping back onto the bed. I looked at the silent phone in my hands. Closed my eyes and willed it to ring. Come on, Jack. Please, please, please...

I opened them. Nothing. Still silent.

I took a deep breath and scrolled through the numbers in my address book until Ramirez's showed on the screen. I stared the entry. So hard that the numbers started swimming front of my vision. My finger hovered over the call button.

I hit it, holding my breath as it rang on the other end. Once, twice, then to voicemail. My heart bottomed out. He wasn't calling and he still wasn't taking my calls.

"Hey, it's me again. I just wanted to let you know I'm going to Milan," I told his voicemail, making good on my promise to keep him informed. "And I... I'm still sorry."

I hung up, then flipped my phone shut and stared at the dark LCD screen.

Dana was right. He just needed some time. He'd call. Eventually.

I hoped.

Chapter Thirteen

Those who know me well know that I am a bit of a celebrity junkie. I never miss a night watching the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG awards, and I'd have to say that my favorite all time awards show moment was when Roberto Benigni won the Oscar for his film
Life Is Beautiful
. In true expressive Italian fashion he jumped up and down, kissing everyone in sight, running down the aisles like a little kid at Christmas. You couldn't help but laugh, cry, and feel your heart beat a little faster right along with him.

Milan was a city full of Benignis. As soon as our plane landed, Dana and I trudged our way through the airport amidst boisterous Italians hugging, laughing, and gesturing with their arms in an aerobic fashion. And kissing. Kissing seemed to be the national sport of Italy. Everywhere we went, men kissing each other on both cheeks, women kissing everyone on both cheeks, and children being kissed in all directions by everyone. In Italy, everyone kissed.

By the time we hailed a cab and were on our way to the address Mom and Mrs. R had Googled for the Girardi Agency, I was seriously contemplating a disinfectant wipe for my cheeks, though I couldn't help the grin that had spread across my face. The Benigni-eque atmosphere was infecting.

"I like it here," Dana said, waving to a friendly group of soccer players waiting at the curb. I was pretty sure at least one of them had slipped her his number.

"Do you know where this address is?" I asked our driver, handing him the print out.

"
S
i
, s
i
," he said, nodding his head. "I take you pretty signoras there." He gave Dana a wink in the rearview mirror. Dana giggled.

"Heard from Ricky lately?" I asked, nudging her in the ribs.

Immediately the smile left her face. "Oh yeah. The cheating bastard."

"Uh oh. Trouble in Croatia?"

"I guess you haven't seen the latest edition of the
Informer
?"

I shook my head. Considering there was a ninety percent chance of seeing my own picture splayed across their pages, I was trying to stay clear. "What did they say this time?"

"There was a picture, Maddie. Of Ricky and Natalie Portman on a beach. She was in a bikini and he was rubbing sunscreen all over her back. Her
bare
back."

"So he's concerned about skin cancer?"

"So he's definitely doing her."

"You don't know that. For all you know, they pasted Ricky and Natalie's faces on Brad and Angelina's bodies. They do that, you know."

Dana made a disbelieving "hmph" sound.

"Have you asked him about it?"

She nodded. "He's still denying it. He told me they're 'just friends,'" she said, doing air quotes with her fingers.

"So, maybe they are."

"Yeah, right."

"Look, maybe he has a perfectly good explanation for it all. Maybe he didn't
mean
to rub sunscreen on her, maybe he was tricked, coerced. Maybe it was just moment of weakness. Maybe he's really, really sorry and really, really wishes you'd just call and forgive him."

Dana gave me a look. "Um, we're not still talking about Ricky are we?" she asked.

I bit my lip. "No."

She patted my arm. "Don't worry. He'll call."

While I appreciated the sentiment, I was beginning to believe that less and less.

The ride from the airport to the Girardi Agency was, thankfully, a short one. Even with the packed city streets, we pulled up in front of the tall, modern glass building in less than twenty minutes. It was in a densely urban part of the city, which, unless you looked closely, could have resembled any part of L.A. Tall office buildings, parking garages, small coffee shops tucked on every corner, and men and women wearing everything from business attire to Bohemian peasant skirts and backpacks rushing to and fro on the sidewalks.

Dana and I paid the driver, then got out and entered the lobby of the cool air-conditioned building. After consulting the directory, we hopped in the elevator and rode it to the twenty-first floor where the agency's offices were housed.

The frosted glass doors simply read "Girardi" in black letters. The reception area beyond was a cool, sophisticated example of modern Italian design. Bright bold area rugs covered the floors, low chairs and tables in sleek chrome and colorful upholstery lined the waiting area. On the tables, a range of fashion magazines, most, I would assume, featuring the agency clientele. The walls were a soft cream color, punctuated with abstract art in a variety of bold geometric shapes, and the kidney shaped desk in the center featured a range of sleek, streamlined computers and other offices machines I'd be afraid to touch for fear of pushing the wrong button.

Behind the desk sat an Asian woman, a headset glued to one ear, her fingers clacking noisily over a keyboard.

"Excuse me, we here to see-" I started, but she didn't let me finish, giving the universal one finger "wait" signal as we approached.

"
S
i
," she said into the headset, her Italian tinged with a Brooklyn accent as she rattled off a string of phrases. Finally one came through that I understood. "
No, dispiaci, no commento
." Then she clicked off.

"I'm sorry," she said, addressing us. "The press has been calling non-stop lately. I'm about to pull the phone out of the wall."

Been there. Done that.

"Anyway, how can I help you?" she asked, breaking into a pleasant smile.

"We're here to see Miss Girardi," I informed her.

A little frown settled between her brows. "Oh. Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, not exactly," I hedged.

"I'm sorry, Miss Girardi isn't in. She went home early today, she said she had some personal business to take care of. Maybe I can help? I'm her assistant, Debbie. What is this regarding?"

I bit my lip. Regarding the fact that your employer might be part of a ring of jewel thieves didn't seem like a kosher message to leave with the friendly assistant. I was still trying to come up with an alternative when Dana piped up beside me.

"I'm seeking representation," she said, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

"Oh?" Debbie asked. "Are you a model?"

Dana nodded. "Yes, I'll be walking in the Le Croix show later this week in Paris."

"Yes, we have a couple of models doing that show." Again her features creased into a frown. "Or, we did anyway."

"I heard about Gisella," I said, leaping in. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." She did a tight smile. "But I honestly didn't really know her. I just started working here a couple of weeks ago. The last girl apparently left quite suddenly."

"Oh?" I asked raising eyebrow. "Any idea why?"

She shrugged. "I'm not really sure. One of the interns told me that Donata caught her last assistant in her private office one day and fired her on the spot. Tough break for her, but really lucky for me. I'd just moved from New York, where I was studying fashion design, so the timing was perfect. I've made tons of great contacts already."

The phone rang and she let out an exasperated sigh. "Except for the press. If you'll excuse me a minute?"

I nodded as she hit a button on her computer and began talking into the headset again.

Honestly, my mind was still rolling over the "fired assistant" thing. Had the former receptionist stumbled onto something she wasn't supposed to? Was there evidence of a crime in Donata's office? Maybe that was where she'd hidden the jewels? I looked beyond the kidney shaped desk, toward the long expanse of hallway on either side, itching to take a look. Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt had said only three of the missing pieces from Fashion Week had been recovered. Maybe that was the "business" Donata had come to Milan to take care of. Maybe she was whisking the fourth away to Milan before Moreau and his crew could get their hands on it.

"No, we're not inclined to comment at this time. I'm sorry," Debbie said into the headset. She rolled her eyes as she hung up. "Sorry, where were we?"

"I was wondering when Miss Girardi would be in?" Dana reminded her.

"Right. Well, I'm not sure she's expected back today," Debbie said, checking her watch, "but if you have a contact sheet with you, I'd be happy to hand it to her."

Dana bit her lip. "Oh, well, this was kind of impromptu. We were just in the neighborhood, see? I don't really have anything with me."

"Well, here," Debbie said, pushing a piece of paper at Dana. "Why don't you leave your contact info and I'll let Miss Girardi know that you stopped by. If you're doing the Le Croix show, I'm sure she'd be interested to meet you."

As Dana took the paper, I looked down the hallway again toward Donata's private office. I bit my lip, feeling my chance to do some snoop - I mean
investigating
- quickly slipping away. I glanced at Debbie, now fielding another call from a Felix clone. I leaned in close to Dana.

"Cover me, Farrah," I whispered.

Dana immediately got that Angels shine in her eyes and nodded.

"Excuse me," I said as Debbie repeated her no-comment spiel into the phone. "But is there a restroom, back there?" I asked, indicating the hallway.

"Oh sure, first door on your left."

I shot her a big smile. "Thanks."

Dana gave me a sly wink as I hobbled down the hallway. I mentally crossed my fingers that Farrah didn't get too carried away.

Instead of turning left, I did a quick glance over my shoulder before swiftly turning to the right and hobbling as stealthily as I could past the restroom and to a door marked "Donata Girardi". I paused outside, listening for any sign of life beyond, before turning the knob and quickly stepping inside.

I shut the door behind me with a little click, my heart hammering as I calculated that I had, at most, a five minute window before Debbie would start getting suspicious. My eyes whipped around the room for a place to start.

Like the reception area, Donata's office held a tasteful mix of contemporary furnishings - a long desk in light woods with chrome accents, flat paneled file cabinets, a sleek sofa in a bold print next to a low glass coffee table, a big white clock on the far wall, and two tall, slim bookshelves filled with binders and photographs.

I dismissed the bookshelves right away, instead heading for the file cabinets. I tried the top one. Locked. Well, what did I expect? If I were hiding stolen diamonds in my office, I'd keep them locked too.

I quickly turned to the desk, opening drawers and scanning the contents for anything that looked like a key. I came across three - one marked with the word "
prowiste
", the other two smaller and slimmer. I took the small ones to the files cabinet and tried the first one. No luck. It fit in the keyhole but didn't turn. I glance at the clock. Three minutes had gone by. Starting to get that antsy feeling the pit of my stomach, I slipped the second key in. Again it fit, but didn't turn. Damn. Where was Felix's lock picking kit when I needed it? Just for good measure I tried the
prowiste
key, but it wouldn't even go in the hole.

I frantically searched around the room for another place to hide a key. If it was in Donata's purse, I was sunk.

My eyes roved the shelves. Framed head shots, books, binders, bits of camera equipment. Finally my eyes landed on a camera case next to a headshot of Gisella in a skimpy bathing suit on a no doubt exotic beach location. Out of sheer desperation, I opened it up. Inside was an old Nikon camera, a roll of thirty-five millimeter film. And a key. I stared at the little sliver thing, wondering if maybe my karma was turning around.

I didn't waste time. With one quick glance at the clock (one minute left) I fit the key into the lock and turned it with a little click. My hands were shaking as I opened the top drawer.

If I'd been expecting to find a cache of jewels in a box marked "Stolen" I was sorely disappointed. The only things in the drawer were files. I felt my heart sink. Though, I figured since I was here I might as well be thorough.

There were several files marked with the names of models, all of which contained pictures, but nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. A few of the files held handwritten notes in Italian that could have said anything from details of their last go-see to Donata's grocery list for all I could tell. I made a mental note that if I was going to do any more foreign snoop -
investigating
- I was going to have to bring a translator with me.

I glanced up. I'd been there seven minutes. I didn't know how much longer Dana could keep Debbie occupied.

I was just about to give up when I saw one file that appeared to be unmarked. With one more backward glance at the office door, still shut (for now), I pulled the file out and thumbed though.

It contained only pictures. They were all 8X10 shots of the same young, male model. From the styles he was wearing, I'd say they were taken sometime in the seventies. One picture showed the man strutting down a runway, another was of him emerging from the surf in designer swimwear. I paused on one that looked like a candid, a full face shot that appeared to be minus any airbrush touches. Something about him seemed familiar. I cocked my head to the side, taking in his wide hazel eyes, thick dark hair, thick dark eyebrows.

And then I saw it. I squinted down at the photograph and there, tiny as could be, was a heart shaped birthmark just at his hairline that even the best plastic surgery couldn't completely get rid of.

I was looking at Donata.

I felt my breath catch in my throat, time standing still for a full two seconds, as I flipped the picture over. Scrawled in neat handwriting on the back was a name. "Donatello Gardini." It was too close to be a coincidence.

Checking the clock, I quickly shoved the picture back in the file, re-locked it in the file drawer, and shoved the key back in the camera case, my hands shaking. I paused only briefly at the door to make sure no one was lurking on the other side before slipping back out of the office and down the hallway, my mind reeling.

Everyone had speculated Donata was a former model, but no one seemed to know the details of her past career. Could that be because Donata was a
male
model? I thought about the amount of obvious plastic surgery she'd gone through. At the time I'd assumed it was because the years have been unkind to her. Now I realize it was a different kind of surgery altogether.