Stolen with Style (16 page)

Chandra vaguely smiled at me when we passed each other on the runway, and Rafaela insisted on high-fiving me when we met. “Miss D!” she hollered above the beat of the music. Great. She'd shortened Ms. Detective to Miss D. Now I sounded like a rapper—although at least it was more discreet. Anyway, the photographers loved it. I heard the camera clicks increase tenfold as she continued down the runway toward them. Meanwhile, I breathed a sigh of relief as I slipped backstage. The whole runway thing still made me nervous—clearly I wasn't a natural. Then again, I thought, if it helped me solve more big, juicy cases…

Judging from the applause, the collection seemed to be a success. Jared dashed out on the runway in his sneakers and T-shirt to give a quick and modest wave of his hand before returning backstage where he was immediately swallowed by a swarm of media and well-wishers. I, meanwhile, quickly changed into my own clothes and then waited for Chandra.

Ellie came to say good-bye on her way out. She was about to head downtown to Juice Studios, where fashion shows for less established designers were often held. “It's a friend's show,” she told me. “He's not famous yet—but he will be.” Needless to say, having Ellie walk his show—as a favor, no less—was a real coup guaranteed to give him media coverage as an up-and-coming designer to watch.

I waited for Chandra near the exit, but she walked past, pretending not to notice me. At the bottom of the exit ramp she stopped to sign autographs for the group of die-hard fashion fans who waited in all kinds of weather for the models leaving the shows.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sebastian standing across the street. It was still light out, although the sun was just beginning to drop. Chandra signed the last autograph and then turned left onto Sixty-Second Street. As she pulled away from the crowd I followed just behind her, and then caught up to her and told her that I'd like to speak with her.

She ignored me and kept moving, her long legs giving her an advantage in speed—and then suddenly she took off, catching me completely by surprise. In a few smooth, athletic strides, she bounded toward the curb of Ninth Avenue and disappeared into her waiting car just as the traffic lights changed. With a squeal of car tires, she was gone.

I was too slow, too late. I pulled back from the curb just as a yellow cab came flying past, its horn beeping loudly. The cab was followed by a zooming herd of cars, and I watched as Chandra's black Escalade disappeared in the fast-moving traffic.

Then I heard a car screech to a halt beside me.

“Axelle! Get in!” Sebastian was calling me from the window of a cab. He must have seen my struggle to keep up with Chandra and quickly hailed a taxi, thinking that she'd probably have a car waiting on Ninth Avenue. And he'd been right!

I jumped in and had just enough time to shut the door before the wheels screamed away from the curb and the cab started hurtling down Ninth Avenue at top speed. The black Escalade was not far in front of us—they must have had to wait at a light—so soon we were just behind them, about to catch up.

They must have seen us following them, though. If not, then Chandra's driver was the fastest in the Big Apple. But our cab stayed close and they never managed to shake us off.

“You know,” our driver said, “I've been driving yellow cabs for more than thirty years, and no one's ever asked me to follow another car. I thought it was something that only happened in the movies!” He was thrilled with the chase and applied all his experience to keep us close to Chandra.

By the time we started crossing the West Village, we were no longer right behind them—at least not in any way that they could see. Our cabdriver was able to follow them discreetly by staying far behind and using streets that ran parallel to the ones they took.

The West Village is chockablock with tiny, narrow one-way streets. We met Chandra's car at intersections, but with Sebastian and I ducking down in the backseat, they had no way to recognize our yellow cab among all the others. So we were fairly certain they no longer thought we were tailing them. And sure enough, they started dropping speed and eventually came to a gentle stop on Centre Street in Nolita. From the back of our cab, parked sixty-five feet behind the Escalade, we watched as Chandra sprang out of her car and strode toward the Police Building, one of the most iconic downtown apartment buildings.

According to our taxi driver, “Back in the day, it actually
was
a police building, but it was converted into apartments years ago. You gotta be rich to live there, that's for sure. Lots of celebrities call it home. I reckon they must get a great view of the Williamsburg Bridge from the back.”

The building's long, stone baroque-revival facade was impressive. Above the pediment over the entrance, an enormous dome glowed in the early evening light.

I handed some cash to our driver and thanked him. (“Anytime. I hope we meet again!” he said.) Then we slid out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk as I tried to decide how to proceed. “I have to follow her in,” I said, as I watched Chandra disappear into the dimly lit depths of the cavernous lobby.

“But there's a doorman standing right there.”

I turned to Sebastian. “Last night you managed to play a magazine vendor and dancing fashionista quite well…”

“So…?”

“So tonight, how about a lost tourist?”

He nodded and laughed.

“I'll go in and pretend Chandra's expecting me. Then you come in and distract the doorman. And while you're charming him—”

“Ah, so you
do
think I'm charming?” He was smiling.

“What I personally think of you, Watson, is immaterial to this case. In this instance, I only hope the
doorman
finds you charming.”

“Have I mentioned that I like it when you're tough?”

Ignoring him, I continued, “And please try to charm him for a while—if you can. I don't know how long it'll take me to find her apartment in there.” I was gazing up at the building. It looked like a mini version of the Met from last night's party.

I pulled a makeup compact out of my shoulder bag and checked myself out. Hmm…my makeup was fine, if a bit heavy, but my hair… I quickly ran my hands through my hair and ruffled it a bit. Ah, that was better. Then, stretching tall—as tall as I could in my Converses—I turned to Sebastian and asked, “Ready?”

“Yeah. How do I look? Like a tourist needing directions?”

Without thinking, I reached up and ruffled his hair. “Now you do.”

“Are you sure you don't need to do more to me?” He was looking at me in that way again—only this time he held it long enough that I was sure I'd seen it.

I pulled my hand back before confusion got the better of me. “We have to go.”

Good evening, how may I help you?” asked the doorman as I strode into the building.

“I'm meeting Chandra—Chandra Rhodes—for dinner. I think she's just gone up.”

“Yes, she has,” he answered as he picked up the internal phone. “May I ask who's here?”

“You can tell her that Misty Parker is here.” As I lied, the irony that Chandra's building was called the Police Building was not lost on me, and I felt a twinge of guilt.

“I'm not getting an answer, but if you wouldn't mind waiting, I'll try her again in a few moments.”

“No problem,” I said. Standing next to the front desk, which was behind a high counter, I took my phone out and feigned preoccupation with my messages. At that moment Sebastian came in and pretended to be lost.
Good
work
, I thought, as I watched Sebastian maneuver the doorman away from the desk and toward the grand front door. As soon as the man had his back to me, I stole behind the desk and looked at the various papers taped to the inside wall of the counter. I quickly found what I was looking for: a list of the tenants and their respective apartment numbers. Giving Sebastian the thumbs-up, I crept back out from behind the desk and quietly made a beeline for the nearest elevator.

Chandra was on the top floor, but when I got off the elevator, I discovered a problem. The apartment doors had no numbers on them! I suspected that was for security reasons because many of the people living in this building were famous, if some of the names on the list I'd seen downstairs were anything to go by.

I quickly walked up and down the corridor, trying to tell if I could hear anything through the doors. But no—nothing. The building could have been empty for all the noise I heard. But then someone suddenly turned some music on—opera, by the sound of it. I thought I could safely assume that it wasn't coming from Chandra's flat. The thought of her listening to opera didn't really sit well with her surfer-chick image.

But then I heard something else…something familiar…something I'd just been listening to myself… It was the music from Jared Moor's show! Surely that had to be Chandra. The music blared loudly from a door farther down the corridor. I walked up to the door, stood in front of the peephole, and knocked.

At first I got no answer, and the music continued to play. Again I knocked, and then I rang her bell—still no answer. In exasperation and hoping that she wouldn't call her doorman to report me, I had the idea of writing her a note. I could see light below her door. Surely I could slip a note underneath it. I took a small notebook and pen out of my shoulder bag and wrote:

Chandra, it's Axelle. Please, I'd like to talk to you…

I slipped the notepaper underneath her door and waited. The trouble was, for all I knew she could be in her bedroom or something. It could be hours before she came near her front door. But after another minute her phone rang, cutting through the music. I thought I heard her run past the door (at least that's how it sounded to me), and as she answered her phone, the music stopped. I knocked on her door again, hard. Surely she'd hear me this time.

A few seconds later I heard Chandra walk up to the door…and then nothing. Was she reading the note I'd written? Had she found it? A moment later I had my answer as I heard her undo the chain and lock. The door opened, and a tired-looking Chandra stood to the side and waved me in with her hand.

Without a word, she led me into a vast living room with soaring ceilings and enormous windows. Fleetingly I thought of what the taxi driver had said about the back of the building probably having a great view toward the Williamsburg Bridge. He was right. The bridge twinkled in the dusky light, adding a sparkly note to an otherwise uncomfortable encounter.

Her apartment looked more or less as I'd imagined the apartment of a mega supermodel would look: funky, sophisticated, colorful, and fun. I could imagine Taylor Swift feeling right at home. Apricot-colored walls were hung with all sorts of prints and pictures. Three surfboards stood upright against the wall to my right, and tie-dyed fabrics were draped over the enormous white sectional sofas that formed a long U shape. Above and to the left was an open mezzanine with a ladder leading to her bed. A colorful kilim carpet hung from the mezzanine railing.

A loud buzzer suddenly rang, nearly making me jump. Chandra quickly went to the intercom on the wall next to her door. It was the doorman downstairs calling to ask if she was okay and tell her that someone had been looking for her. She looked at me and I nodded, mouthing the words, “It was me.” She didn't tell him I was with her, but just reassured him that everything was fine.

After hanging up with him, she disappeared into her glossy white-and-lime-green kitchen and I heard her blender start to whir. She still hadn't said a word to me, and I couldn't begin to imagine how this was going to play out. I quickly sent Sebastian a text to at least let him know that I'd made it in. He wrote back right away:

Well done! I'm off to dinner now. Let me know how you get on. See you tomorrow?

Dinner? He hadn't mentioned anything about dinner. I wrote back:

Or we could meet up later to quickly discuss our game plan. I have a casting near here when I've finished with Chandra, but after that maybe?

Sebastian:

Sorry, no, can't do. Busy all night. Tomorrow? Anytime is good.

Probably sending feedback to my mom, I thought. Or having dinner with Cleo.

Shut
up
.
And
stop
jumping
to
conclusions.

I took a breath and wrote back:

Fine. Tomorrow. We can make plans in the morning.

Chandra came out of her kitchen with two glasses of green smoothie just as I slipped my phone away. The fact that she produced her own smoothie mix—Chandra's Choice—came to mind.
This
must
be
it
, I thought.

“I'm sorry—” we both started.

“You go first,” she said as she put the glasses down on a large, low wooden table (literally, the table was a huge chunk of wood—driftwood, by the looks of it), then busied herself with watering an enormous potted palm that stood between two of the windows.

“Chandra, listen. I'm sorry I chased you here—and please don't be upset by anything I'm about to say, but…I'd like to talk to you about a diamond you wore at the
Chic
shoot last Friday—”

“I knew you were in New York to do more than just model,” she said, turning to face me. “But sure, we can discuss last Friday—although I think you'll find that following me here was a waste of your time.”

I shook my head. “I'm not sure it was.”

She glared at me for a moment, her eyes flashing.

“I think you know more than you're letting on,” I insisted. I'd followed her here because the few vague clues I had pointed strongly to her. If she thought I was going to let go of this chance easily, then she was mistaken.

“That can be said about most people and most situations, don't you think?” she said mockingly. She'd finished watering her palm and was now sitting on the sofa across from me.

“Will you let me tell you what I think happened?” I continued.

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Suit yourself.” I watched her profile as she picked at a thread on the back of the sofa.

Maybe I could shock her into admission, I thought. So I blurted out, “I think you took the diamond—as one of your well-known practical jokes or ‘magic tricks.' Whatever you want to call it…” I thought I saw her flinch as I said it. “Even Cazzie said—”

“Cazzie?” She looked at me suddenly, her pretense of indifference slipping—even if only slightly.

I moved in quickly before she had time to regain her composure completely.

“Cazzie doesn't think you took it, but the fact is that the diamond is missing and she needs to find it… She called you, I think. Shortly after the shoot?”

Chandra nodded but said nothing. In fact, her stubborn silence seemed to highlight the trouble with this case so far. No one was saying anything; no one had seen anything; and no one knew anything.
Argh!

I continued in a goading tone, “She thought you might confess that you'd taken the diamond, that you were playing one of your magic tricks on her—something she says you do regularly on fashion shoots. But when she called you, you didn't say anything…” I looked at her pointedly but was met with silence. “So,” I continued, “Cazzie began to doubt you'd taken it because she says you never keep things for very long, and that in any case you like to draw attention to your tricks—neither of which you did in this instance.”

I paused for a moment, waiting for all this to sink in. “Cazzie will have to go to the police, you know. At this point it really can't be avoided, but I was hoping you might help us first…” Surely threatening her with the police would make her crack? But still Chandra said nothing. I felt like I was sitting opposite a sphinx.

I kept going. “So Cazzie called me. You're right. I'm here on her behalf to find it. And so far…”
Right, Axelle,
I told myself,
it's time to close in hard
. “So far all the evidence I have…” She was looking at me now, still sphinxlike, but at least I seemed to have her full attention. “…leads me to you. My trail goes cold at your doorstep. Anything you could tell me might help. I think you know much more than you're letting on. And like I said, if I leave here not having learned anything new, I'm afraid Cazzie will have to call the police…”

Basically, I'd stopped just short of accusing her of stealing the most famous black diamond in the world from one of the most prestigious fashion shoots in the world—but you'd never have known it from looking at her. If I'd expected a fierce denial, I was in for a surprise, because all Chandra did was take a long look at me and sigh. And when she finally spoke I had to question whether my dream of being a detective was really only that—a dream.

“I wish I could help you,” she said, “but I'm afraid I don't have the diamond… Nor do I know where it is.”

I raised my eyebrows as this registered. Of course, she could easily be lying—but my gut told me she wasn't. At the same time, if she really did know nothing of the diamond's whereabouts, as she claimed, surely she would sound more upset or angry at my accusation? But how could she not have the diamond? Okay, I knew I didn't have much to go on, and I'd jumped to some major conclusions based on a lot of tiny details—things she'd said and the recollections of others.

I had no hard evidence. But still… everything had pointed to Chandra! Even considering the chink that I'd pointed out to Sebastian—that Chandra had sent the text message to Cazzie yesterday morning while supposedly thirty thousand feet in the air… How could I have been that far off? I'd thought I was more than halfway to solving my second big mystery. Instead I seemed more than halfway to nowhere!

The case seemed to have more threads than haute-couture embroidery.

I took a few slow sips from my thick green smoothie, buying time as I rapidly went through all I knew about the Friday shoot. But again, everything pointed most strongly in Chandra's direction. I admit it wasn't a direct line…but it was much more so than for any of the others. With my last swallow of the thick green goop, a thought came to me. What was it she'd said?

“I wish I could help you…but I'm afraid I don't have the diamond… Nor do I know where it is.”

Hmm…I repeated the words in my mind. If she hadn't taken the Black Amelia, wouldn't she have said, “I didn't take the diamond… I never touched it,” or something like that? And wouldn't she have been angry at being falsely accused? But other than her simple statement, she hadn't defended herself, and she'd remained cool… Too cool, I thought now.

Suddenly, something my grandma had often told me rang in my ears: “Occasionally, Axelle, when your grandfather and his team were solving a tricky case, he'd say to them, ‘Listen carefully to everything you hear… People often reveal more than they think by what they say.'”

If I took Chandra's statement literally, she'd only admitted to not
presently
having the diamond and to not
presently
knowing where it was.

Neither of those admissions relieved her of past possession of the diamond or of past knowledge of its whereabouts. So maybe I was right—maybe she did take the diamond after all.

If true, this might explain the absence of any anger or passionate denials in the face of my accusation. But then why didn't she have the diamond now? Where had the Black Amelia gone?

My mind spun as I went through likely scenarios. Either she'd gotten rid of the diamond, or she was lying and still had it and had some elaborate blackmail scheme up her sleeve, or… Suddenly, like a knot being slipped undone, I felt something shift about the way I needed to look at this case. An unusual theory had crept into my mind, and it was gathering momentum. Could it really be that? Maybe…possibly…

Why
not?

I believed that Chandra no longer had the gem. She looked more uncomfortable with each passing moment, and I was inclined to go with what my instinct told me: that she was as bad at twisting the truth as she was good at playing pranks. I didn't think she could lie outright.

“I think we're finished here, so if—” Chandra was standing now, ready to show me out.

Quashing any self-doubt about myself or my new theory, and following my gut, I took a chance and quickly said, “Chandra, I believe that you don't have the diamond and that you don't know where it is…but I still think that you
did
have the diamond and that you
did
know where it
was
…”