Designer Knockoff (7 page)
“It’s riveting, Mac.” She squinted at the screen. Her “Crimes of Fashion” column on the boutique bandits filled one line so far. “Armed in Armani? Or, is it chic to rob Versace wearing Gucci?” It was a start. She hit Save.
“Good. Johnson called in. He’s afraid you’re wreaking havoc on his beat up on the Hill. You seem to frighten him.”
“Freak. I merely wrote this little story about the rag trade. And Hansen did a nice job with the photos on Cordelia Westgate testifying before the Senate committee.”
Mac picked up the paper and grunted. “She’s got a lot of hair,” he said before he departed.
Lacey didn’t choose fashion. It chose her. Or rather, Mac, with inscrutable editorial wisdom, had thrown her into the beat a couple of years earlier, because it was expedient at the time. He had one dropped-dead-of-a-heart-attack fashion editor on his hands and a looming deadline. Lacey, then bylined as L. B. Smithsonian, Mac’s newest city reporter, strolled innocently into his field of vision and voilà! Instant fashion reporter. They had fought about it ever since. She yearned for a real beat. He was happy having her fill the fashion slot. Readers loved her and hated her, but they read her, which was all Mac cared about.
“Crimes of Fashion,” by Lacey Smithsonian, and her dosand-don’ ts pieces, “Fashion Bites,” sold more than a few papers. So she was stuck. And Lacey wasn’t even privy to the usual perks of a fashion reporter’s job.
The Eye Street Observer
was too poor—or too cheap—to send her off to cover the real fashion world in New York, Paris, or Milan.
The Eye Street Observer
was too poor—or too cheap—to send her off to cover the real fashion world in New York, Paris, or Milan.
She had to make up her own beat out of whole cloth—so to speak—in Washington, D.C., The City That Fashion Forgot. Lacey believed that the clothing people chose always told a story. Unfortunately, in Washington, a peculiar little world of its own with its own baffling rules of dress and culture, the story was usually a dull one. Lacey often found herself working harder than she would have with a normal beat.
The phone rang.
“Eye Street Observer,
Smithsonian.”
“Eye Street Observer,
Smithsonian.”
“So, what are you going to wear to that fancy-schmancy fund-raiser?”
“Nice of you to call, Stella.”
“So, like, I just read your story on that museum ball and it’s right up your vintage alley.”
“I know, it sounds great, but I haven’t checked with Mac yet. And I’m not sure they would let an
Eye Street
reporter in with the hoity-toity press like
The New York Times and Entertainment Tonight.”
Eye Street
reporter in with the hoity-toity press like
The New York Times and Entertainment Tonight.”
“Is it really five thousand bucks a plate?”
“More like a grand—for the civilians, that is. It’s major-league fancy-schmancy. And you know Mac; he wouldn’t pop for a grande latte at Starbucks.”
“You’re going, you know you’re going. Forget the money; you’ll find a way. But what to wear?”
“I don’t know yet, Stel. It’s not about me.”
“You are so wrong! It is totally all about you, if you look good enough. And it’s totally about me, because I’m doing your hair! So of course you will look fabulous. We just need to find you the right look.” Lacey heard a bell tinkling in Stella’s background. “Damn, my eleven-thirty is here. I’ll call you later. So the look. What do you think: Hedy Lamarr? She was the total package. Or maybe Barbara Stanwyck, femme fatale? Think about it.” Stella hung up.
“Hey, Smithsonian,” Tony was hollering from across the room. His boots du jour traveled swiftly to her desk.
“Hey, yourself. What’s up?”
“You were up on the Hill yesterday morning in the appropriations hearing on that museum thing, right?” She nodded. “I saw you on TV last night; nice work snagging that interview.”
“Hold the flattery. You’re only interested in criminals.”
“And criminal activity. We’ve got a missing woman.” Irrationally, Lacey’s first thoughts were of Mimi’s friend Gloria Adams, who’d apparently been missing for sixty years.
But how did Trujillo know about Gloria?
“You know an intern named Esme Fairchild?” Tony said.
But how did Trujillo know about Gloria?
“You know an intern named Esme Fairchild?” Tony said.
“Oh, right. Esme.”
Not Gloria, you dope, Lacey.
“I’ve talked with her, but she wasn’t there yesterday.”
Not Gloria, you dope, Lacey.
“I’ve talked with her, but she wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Aha!” Trujillo was bursting to let go of his information. “And she’s not there again today.”
“You’ve got my attention. Tell me.”
“She hasn’t been seen since Monday. Her parents filed a missing-persons report.”
“But aren’t they in Tennessee or someplace like that?”
“They’re flying in. Apparently they’re overprotective. When she didn’t call them as scheduled, they started calling her office, her friends, her housemates. No one’s seen her. I’m working on the story, but I thought you might—”
“More work for me?”
“—help out. I’m sure there’s a fashion angle. Mac thinks so too,” Tony said, indicating the burly editor who was steaming back down the aisle toward them. Lacey was often struck by Mac’s appearance—something like a black G. Gordon Liddy, with all of the intensity and the eyebrows, and none of the politics. “She knows her, Mac,” Trujillo said. “Told you she would.”
“Smithsonian. You know this Fairchild woman?”
“A little. You want me to work on a fashion angle?”
“There’s a fashion angle?” The eyebrows danced.
“Do you read my stories, Mac, or just doodle in the margins?”
“Just help Tony with some background. You know the woman, and we need a more personal view to beef up our coverage. Everyone’s going to be all over this story. Another missing intern. You know what that means.”
It means that Kenyon over at the Times might have some inside info. I wonder if he’ll share?
“Media circus day?” Lacey asked.
“Media circus day?” Lacey asked.
“She’s an intern! Missing interns never turn up alive here. Be a miracle if they actually find her. Now get on it.” Mac stomped off to put out other journalistic fires.
Lacey first called Kenyon, who swore he didn’t know any more than he’d told her at the hearing. Esme was friendly; he assumed she had many boyfriends. He knew what Lacey knew; she was ambitious. In other words, he wasn’t sharing.
Lacey hit a little pay dirt with Nancy Mifflin, the subcommittee’s guardian of the press releases. Less grumpy today, Nancy didn’t have any insight into Esme’s possible whereabouts, but she told Lacey that Esme had left some modeling shots in a folder at her desk—would that help? Lacey immediately dispatched a bike messenger to pick up the photos. Nancy also gave her the names of a few other people who might have information, including a housemate where Esme lived. Lacey left a lot of messages and started to wonder about lunch.
The phone rang, but it wasn’t a return call from any of the people she was hunting. It was Brooke, her conspiracy-crazed friend, a top-drawer Washington attorney who wasn’t above the occasional down-and-dirty surveillance. Brooke Barton, Esquire, managed to pump out billable hours with CNN blaring in the background all day long. She never suffered from network news burnout, unlike mere mortals like Lacey. Brooke’s favorite tongue-in-cheek theory of the moment, which Lacey almost believed, was that Washington had top-secret “pheromone jammers.” Sinister microwaves transmitted from the basement of the Pentagon were jamming all natural pheromones within the Beltway, derailing all hopes for male-female romance in the Nation’s Capital. Why? To ensure that thousands of government wonks mindlessly toiled away at their desks, building empires of red tape, using building blocks made of lawyer’s briefs. They knew something was missing in their lives, but they weren’t quite sure what. (Brooke and Lacey were pretty sure what was missing from their lives: men.) Brooke’s latest twist was that the jamming rays were now color-coded to match the Homeland Security alert level, pumping up the power whenever the country lurched from Yellow to Orange.
Attention, Washingtonians: No fooling around, or the terrorists will win!
Attention, Washingtonians: No fooling around, or the terrorists will win!
“Lacey, it’s me. Listen, I read your appropriations story, I heard about the missing intern, and I put two and two together—”
“And no doubt got sixty-four.”
“Why quibble over the math? Are you working on this? What do you know? Did you know this Esme Fairchild? What can you tell me? By the way, I saw you on TV last night—wow, great suit. So what’s the story?”
“Take a breath, Brooke.”
“No time for that. Are you free? Let’s go to lunch, across from the square. I can be there in ten minutes.”
“What, no briefs to file? No testimony to prepare? No witnesses to intimidate?”
“Everything is under control. Well, you know what I mean, under control for D.C.”
“I’d love to meet you for lunch, but I don’t know anything yet. Do you read me?”
“I read you every day, Lacey. See you soon.”
Lacey grabbed her purse before anyone else could give her more work. She cut through Farragut Square to reach the restaurant. The day was glorious and warmer than the day before. There was no hint of the crushing Code Red humidity that had dogged the summer. Lacey even detected a slight crispness in the air, announcing a hint of the fall to come. She breathed deeply.
Following her success with the vintage Bentley, it was the perfect day for another Forties suit. This one had a long fitted jacket in a golden tan, with square-cut lapels and a skirt in a warm brown. She wore it with a matching brown shell. Unfortunately there was no label to tell her where it came from; Lacey had picked it up at a vintage store in Vermont. A pair of brown-and-tan spectator pumps with a Cuban heel, not too tall to walk in, were perfect with it.
“Lacey Smithsonian?” She glanced up to see an intense-looking man about thirty staring at her. He was stationed just under the statue of Adm. David Farragut. “Damon Newhouse, Conspiracy Clearinghouse. You know, ‘DeadFed dot com’?” He offered his hand.
She stopped and stared at him; then she remembered the Web site that had prominently featured her stories that spring about dead hairstylists, too many suspicious suicides, and a missing seamy videotape. She took his hand.
“I see you’re speechless at the sight of me in the flesh. I bet you thought I only existed in the blue glow of a computer screen,” he said.
“Right, we’ve only spoken on the phone. And e-mail.”
“When I’ve been able to get ahold of you. And you don’t much like e-mail, do you?”
“You’re not going to make me feel guilty, Damon. Not on such a beautiful day.”
“Oh, right. Beautiful day. I don’t get outside much.” He was compact, thin, and dark; boyish, with a delicate face that he tried to toughen up with black wire-framed glasses and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He was dressed all in black, and he looked like he should be carrying bongos and a copy of Allen Ginsberg’s
Howl.
It didn’t work—he was too cute to look convincingly tough.
Are there lots of these little-boy beatniks lost in cyberspace?
Lacey wondered.
Howl.
It didn’t work—he was too cute to look convincingly tough.
Are there lots of these little-boy beatniks lost in cyberspace?
Lacey wondered.
“I’ve e-mailed you about fifty times,” he broke into her thoughts.
“I’m not very good about managing my mailbox,” she said.
“I’ve called a dozen times, too,” he said. “You have a sexy voice-mail message.”
“I thought you’d be ...” She groped for something to say.
“Taller?”
Nerdier, creepier, and crazier-looking.
“Right. Taller.”
“Right. Taller.”
“That’s what everybody says.” He sighed. “I’m taller and handsomer on the Web.” He had a nice smile.
“Look, I’d love to talk, but I’m on my way to lunch.” She began to walk away.
“That’s cool. I’ll walk with you. I thought it was time we met in person. Then maybe you’ll take my calls. Now that you know I’m real, not computer generated.” He matched her step for step.
All too real.
His enthusiasm amused her. She had been enthusiastic once.
All too real.
His enthusiasm amused her. She had been enthusiastic once.
The Conspiracy Clearinghouse Web site, better known as DeadFed dot com, was Newhouse’s baby, a compendium of all the known, alleged, suspected, or hoped-for conspiracies afoot in Washington since the 1950s. Damon worked by day as a mild-mannered news editor for a trade association for Web-based technologies. By night he was an avenging loose cannon of a journalist whose ambition was to break big news stories on the Web, like
The Drudge Report
and
The Smoking Gun.
He strove to be a force for truth, a concept that in Washington was both malleable and elusive.
The Drudge Report
and
The Smoking Gun.
He strove to be a force for truth, a concept that in Washington was both malleable and elusive.
“And you would be calling me about what, exactly?” Lacey inquired.
“These things go in cycles. Time for something new to break. Something big.”
“And that involves me how?”
“Esme Fairchild.” Lacey said nothing, so he continued. “You were at that appropriations hearing yesterday. The fair Esme Fairchild, missing Washington intern, worked for the committee. I saw you in the background of a news report. Last time that happened, all hell broke loose. You brought down the Stylettos Slasher.”
She stopped and took in a big breath of air. “Just for the record, I did not intend to stab Razor Boy.”
He turned toward her and whispered conspiratorially. “But aren’t you glad you did?”
“I’m glad I’m alive. Besides, anyone would have done the same in self-defense.”
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