Stolen with Style (2 page)

The muted hush beyond the steel and glass doors stopped me in my tracks. Times Square and all of its colorful, noisy chaos were instantly relegated to another world.

Of course,
Chic
was another world—even within fashion.

I put my phone on silent and went to the reception desk. After giving my name, I was directed to the elevators. The Sid Clifton Building—that's the building I was in—houses all of the magazines published by Sid Clifton Inc., including
Teen
Chic
and
Chic
Home
and a host of other titles. And if the large portrait hanging in the lobby was anything to go by, Sid Clifton wasn't just a corporation, but a real person too
.

The people going in and out of the lobby seemed to be a mixture of gray-suited corporate types, fierce-looking older women in elegant trouser suits or power dresses, bike messengers in full sportswear, and lots of young, glamorous journalist or junior-editor types with Starbucks cups in hand. I also saw a few models, their large shoulder bags bumping against their hips as they bounded through the lobby, long hair streaming behind them.

Before entering an elevator, I took a quick look at myself in the large mirrored wall behind the reception desk. Skinny jeans, my new super-cool detective-style trench coat, little black sweater, and Converse sneakers with DIY decorations (pointy silver studs). All topped off with a large gauzy scarf my mom had bought me over the weekend.

“Modal and cashmere,” she'd explained. “It'll keep you warm. New York can be quite blustery in spring. And it'll add a touch of color.” She was right; I liked the way it looked. I pinched my cheeks for a bit more color, added some lip gloss, and stepped into an elevator.

Thankfully, it was empty. I was starting to feel nervous—very nervous. “Calm down, Axelle. Relax,” I told myself, taking a deep breath. Naturally, I'd jumped at the chance to take on this case…but now that I was here—
flown
in
from
London
by
Chic
!
—the enormity of what I'd accepted suddenly hit me like a weighted handbag. There was no way out of this. And if I didn't solve this case pronto, my reputation would be reduced to that of a one-trick pony.

“Get it together, Axelle. Get it together,” I repeated. My grandma had always said, “You'll be the world's best detective one day, Axelle.” I took another deep breath and, with a quick look skyward (or elevator ceiling-ward at least), I prayed for her to help me.

I stepped out on the eighteenth floor into the
Chic
lobby. It was a sophisticated, serene space of white and cream. Elegantly framed
Chic
covers decorated the walls, and straight ahead, in large brass letters on the creamy marble wall behind the receptionist's desk, was the word
CHIC
. A few models were sitting in the reception area, their long legs stretched out, phones or iPads in hand, shoulder bags slouching beside them on the white sofas.

I was halfway across the room when a young woman in teetering heels and a short skirt came out to greet me. “Axelle? Hi, I'm Amy, Cazzie Kinlan's assistant,” she said, holding out her hand.

Cazzie (also known as Cassandra Kinlan) is the young British-born editor-in-chief of
Chic: New York
. She's widely considered to be one of the new fashion stars of her generation—and she was the one who'd called Miriam to put me on this case.

I followed Amy through a labyrinthine warren of white offices and corridors. Shoes and dresses were everywhere: on heavily loaded racks, exploding out of rooms, spilling off shelves. And like busy ants, a sophisticated, stylish assortment of women and men strode purposefully from place to place.

“We're nearly there,” Amy said before stopping at a white door and softly knocking. “Ms. Kinlan?”

Then, before I knew what was happening, I was sitting in a comfortable white armchair, about to take on my second case.

I hadn't known what to expect when meeting Cazzie…but I suppose I'd imagined someone like my Aunt Venetia (who until recently had been editor-in-chief of
Chic: Paris
, and whose skin was thicker than last season's wedges).

Instead I was confronted with a waif-like young editor who was clearly anxious. A nervous, agitated energy came off her in waves.

She was standing near the large corner window opposite where I sat. She wore silky, calf-length pajama bottoms—at least that's what they looked like to me—with a pair of purple python-print stilettos. A flimsy camisole top worn under a tiny, black fitted jacket completed her look. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders like mine, but there the similarity ended. Hers was stick straight and with zero frizz. It probably looked amazing no matter what she did. She had wide hazel eyes, and her fine, unadorned features reminded me of what Miriam had mentioned in her notes—that Cazzie had once been a model.

She gave me a brief once-over as Amy quietly left the room. Then as soon as we were alone, Cazzie crossed the floor, introduced herself, and got straight to the point.

“My life is on the line.”

When she saw my eyes widen in shock, she sighed and slumped like a rag doll into her large white desk chair.

“I'm sorry, Axelle. I don't mean that literally—I'm not personally threatened in any way,” she quickly clarified. “But I feel as though I might as well be. You see,
I
was responsible for the diamond. It was my idea to use it, and it went missing on a shoot
I'd
organized and personally styled. And it was whisked away right under my nose. Poof—gone! Just like that…” She turned and looked out the window as she continued.

“Axelle, if this diamond isn't found, not only will I have made a mockery of
Chic
—I can assure you that no one will ever loan the magazine anything of value again—but my personal reputation will be in tatters. The fashion world will never let me near another magazine or photo shoot again! I might just as well start looking for a new job—in another business.”

Turning back to face me, she continued, “I don't need to tell you that the last thing I want is to have the police snooping around. The risk that people will start talking is far too high. That's why I called you. I'm counting on your discretion. This story cannot leak! Please, Axelle, you must find the diamond—but I'm afraid you'll have to do it on your own.”

From the many snippets of gossip I'd heard Aunt Venetia share with my mom over the years, I knew how unforgiving the fashion world could be. I had no doubt that Cazzie Kinlan's livelihood and reputation were in dire straits. Furthermore, if this story went public,
Chic
would also suffer a severe blow. No surprise then that Cazzie was willing to try anything to avoid the police—even if it meant going with a sixteen-year-old fashion detective as untried as a new pair of shoes: me.

Then, before I could ask a question, she held out her cell phone. “I received this yesterday—Sunday. I wanted to show it to you right away. I know I sound paranoid, but I didn't want to discuss it with Miriam over the phone in case…” She stopped and drew a deep breath while I took her phone. “It's from an unknown number.”

I read the brief text message.

Are you having a good weekend?

“For a split second,” Cazzie said, “I thought it must have been sent by a wrong number, that the message wasn't intended for me. But then I had this strange feeling in my stomach, and I knew…I knew it had to be the person…the thief.” She shivered. “I can almost hear them laughing when I read it.”

“Have you received anything else like this?” I asked.

Cazzie nodded. “Sort of. It came early this morning—unknown number again. If you scroll down, you'll see it. I don't really understand…”

You're about to start the ultimate treasure hunt.

Answer correctly and you'll find what you want.

But be warned: by the time you find it, it'll be the least of your worries…

Now I could hear the laughter too. The image of a deranged joker, head thrown back and cackling, came to mind. The first message
could
have been dismissed as a mistake, but this one was different; it was threatening.

Did “you'll find what you want” refer to the Black Amelia? And what did the sender mean by “the least of your worries”?

“I tried texting back.” Cazzie quickly ran her hand over her face before continuing. “But my message didn't go through. It was like the number was blocked or no longer existed.”

Hmm…so if it was the thief, he or she was probably using a phone with a disposable SIM card to avoid being traced. But what did these messages mean? Nothing seemed to link them directly to the theft of the Black Amelia, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation. Not that I'd tell Cazzie…

“Who knows?” I asked. “About the missing diamond, I mean? Who have you talked to about it?”

“Besides you and me? Only Miriam. I haven't even told my boyfriend—although he's sensed something's up. I've been jittery, to say the least.” The dark circles under her eyes definitely attested to that. “But I haven't told anyone here at the magazine and apart from whoever took the diamond—and, like I said, you and Miriam—I doubt anyone else knows. If they do, it didn't come from me.”

Then she pushed a nondescript black office folder across her desk toward me. In her soft English voice, she explained, “These are the notes Miriam told me you would need.”

I looked her in the eye as I took the folder.

She nodded, a faint smile at the corners of her lips. “And, yes, I wrote them myself, per your instructions. Good thing you included that warning—I've fallen into the habit of letting my assistant, Amy, write everything up for me.”

When I'd accepted the case, I'd been meticulous in the detailed instructions I'd asked Miriam to pass on to
Chic
regarding what I would need—and secrecy had been a major factor.

“You should find everything you wanted: a list of those present at the shoot, their job descriptions, a brief bio of each person, the studio's address, and a few more details I thought might be useful to you.”

“And the shoot?”

Cazzie nodded. “For tomorrow? It's been confirmed and everyone will be able to make it. That's a fashion miracle, considering how busy everyone is before the Fashion Week shows that start on Wednesday. We'll be the same group at the shoot, and just like last Friday, there'll be no assistants and I'll do the styling myself.”

In my instructions, I'd asked if there was any possibility of
Chic
organizing a reshoot: the same group of people, the same studio, the same time frame as the shoot last Friday. I wanted to—
needed
to—re-create as closely as possible the circumstances surrounding the Black Amelia's disappearance. Because I didn't yet have any tangible evidence to go on, I hoped that being in the studio the diamond was stolen from—and meeting the group that had been present when it happened—might yield some clues. Plus, without a doubt, a reshoot was the most discreet way for me to ask questions without raising any suspicion. I could ask the group about last Friday while “working” with them, as opposed to tracking them down individually and trying to question them.

So it was great news that Cazzie had taken my request seriously and made the reshoot happen. “Not a problem,” she said when I thanked her. “I have plenty more clothes to photograph for the magazine's upcoming issues, so it was easy enough to convince everyone that I needed them again—even last-minute.”

I opened the folder she'd given me and slowly perused the papers inside. On top was the list of those present at the shoot:

Studio 7, Juice Studios,

Friday 9 a.m.–5 p.m.

Cazzie Kinlan: editor

Peter Van Oorst: photographer

Trish Fine: makeup artist

Tom Urbino: hairstylist

Chandra Rhodes: model

Misty Parker: model

Rafaela Cruz: model

Brandon Hart: photographer's assistant/digi-tech

Hmmm…it was a small group. As I ran my eyes down the list, I realized that Brandon Hart was the only assistant. That wouldn't have struck me as odd, but after modeling in Paris all last week, I knew that all the key players—photographer, stylist, hairstylist, and makeup artist—have assistants on photo shoots…and yet there was just the one on Cazzie's list. Normally Cazzie would have had a junior stylist along with her, surely? And hadn't the photographer used more assistants than just his digi-tech guy? And what about hair and makeup? I asked Cazzie about this.

“You're right—normally there would have been a fair number of assistants on hand. Trish, Tom, and Peter would certainly have had them. As for me, I don't normally style the shoots. I did it this time around because the idea of using the diamond had been mine—and I knew it wouldn't have been loaned to us if I wasn't personally involved. So for the sake of the diamond and its security, I wanted to keep the number of people in the studio as limited as possible, hence no assistants—for any of us. I thought the fewer people who knew about it, the better… Not that my idea worked.” She broke off, her voice strangled with fear and worry. She stood up and paced the length of the large window, her stilettos sinking quietly into the plush white carpeting.

I skimmed through the rest of the notes as Cazzie continued to pace. Hmm…there was one detail I hadn't thought about, one that now seemed glaringly obvious—and necessary.

“Cazzie?” I asked, standing up. “Do you mind if I use your computer?”

She stood by the window. “Of course not. Go ahead.”