Stolen with Style (3 page)

I quickly crossed to her desk. I wasn't sure I'd find what I wanted, but it was worth a try. They rented out space, after all. I googled “Juice Studios NYC,” then clicked on their web address, and—bingo—there it was: a diagram of Studio 7's floor plan. In fact, their website showed a floor plan for every one of the seven studios they rented. I emailed Studio 7's plan to myself so I had a copy of it on my phone.

From the detailed floor plan I saw that the studio was shaped like an
L
. A curtain could be pulled across the entire opening where the two rectangles met, creating a long area (the longer bit of the
L
) where the photo shoot took place and hair and makeup were done, and a short curtained-off space at the bottom that was used as the dressing area.

Both a “normal” door and a large delivery door (for taking equipment in and out of the studio) were at the top of the main studio area. I asked Cazzie if the doors had been left open during the shoot.

“Once the day got started, the delivery door remained shut—I'm sure of it—and the normal entry door was only used by the group…” As she spoke, Cazzie was looking over my shoulder at the floor plan. “Well, with the exception of our lunch delivery, which came from the cafeteria downstairs. But they only dropped our lunch off and left.”

Then, moving her finger across the floor plan, she said, “In this corridor just outside the studio is a bathroom. That's the one we used. So I don't think anyone from our group left the seventh floor—at least not that I know of. And no Juice Studio assistants came up from downstairs. Peter sent Brandon down if he needed anything. Incidentally, Peter was the only person I said anything to about the diamond before the shoot.”

“When did you tell him you'd be shooting with it?”

“A few days earlier. But again, I trust Peter completely, and besides, it's hardly the first time we've shot valuable jewelry together. Anyway, I don't remember anyone else coming into the studio once we started shooting.”

“Juice Studios must keep a log of people who go in and out of the building… Do you think I can see it? Just for that day?”

Cazzie chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “The visitors' log is kept at the studios' reception desk—it's the one everyone signs when they come in or leave. I'm sure I can get hold of it, but I'll have to do it without raising suspicion. Leave it to me. I'll send it to you as soon as I have it.

“What scares me,” she continued after a moment, “is that I've known almost everyone on that list for a long time. I mean, Trish, Tom, Peter, and I have known each other since our teens, and I've known all three girls since they started modeling. And Brandon is someone I've started working with a lot, thanks to Peter. If you'd asked me on Friday morning if one of them could steal a diamond, I'd have laughed and bet my life that nothing like this could happen—even with the diamond in plain sight.

“Of course, for all I know, someone else may have come in, someone I didn't see. I was in the dressing area half of the time, getting the girls ready, so…” She shrugged before continuing. “But like I said, Peter and I made a point of reducing the amount of traffic through the studio.”

“And when did you notice the Black Amelia was missing?”

Her shoulders slumped as she answered. “Not until I was packing up to leave, when I checked the case it came in. Everyone else had already left. At first I thought it was one of Chandra's practical jokes. I know it sounds odd,” she quickly added when she saw my eyes widen. “But if you knew Chandra, you'd know it's exactly the kind of joke she likes to play. She loves magic and card tricks—she always has.

“I can't tell you how many times she's kept the crew entertained when we've been on location somewhere, waiting for the weather to change, or at the airport, delayed by a late flight. She's especially good at making things disappear.” Cazzie paused for a moment. “I really thought it was one of her jokes. I even went so far as to call her…”

“And?”

“She answered, but she didn't say anything about the diamond. She just talked a bit about the day and then asked what I wanted.”

“So what did you say?”

“I was terrified of broaching the subject and ended up not saying anything. After all, if she hadn't taken it, how would it sound if I started asking her about it?”

“As if you were accusing her…”

“Exactly. And of course she would have realized that the diamond was missing, and I couldn't risk that getting out. Anyway, after I got off the phone with her, I realized that she couldn't have taken it.”

“Why?”

“Because in some little way, Chandra always brings your attention to whatever she's taken. I think she likes to see the surprise on your face. And anyway, I doubt even she would be bold enough to steal a diamond as a joke. Then again, she didn't seem to give much thought to its value—unlike Misty and Rafaela, the other models shooting that day. They both asked a lot of questions about the Black Amelia…”

Cazzie paused for a moment before continuing. “I was sick to my stomach when I didn't find the diamond. I can't tell you how I panicked. I searched the entire studio, every corner, every centimeter, but it was gone.” She let out a long sigh.

“And when you searched the studio, did you notice anything unusual, something that may have slipped your eye earlier in the day?”

“You mean like the proverbial loose thread from the thief's jacket or a crumpled note with a name on it?” She shook her head. “Sadly not—and believe me, I looked. I even stayed on while the cleaners put everything in order. They do it in the evening so that the studio is ready for the following morning. I stayed on until it was spotless, white and shining. By this point I was frantic. I didn't know what to do—I went home and fretted all night. And then, in the morning, the story about you finding Belle was all over the news and I thought you could be the answer to my prayers. I called Miriam right away.”

I really hoped I could live up to her faith in me. I flicked through the folder until I came to a photo of the Black Amelia.

“Yes, that's it,” she said, “although, needless to say, it's even more spectacular in real life.”

I pulled the photo out. The diamond was at the center of an ornate piece of jewelry; the picture showed it modeled on someone's hand. Fine strands of white gold set with tiny white diamonds formed rings around the middle and index fingers, then stretched down across the top of the hand where they encircled the Black Amelia. From the bottom of the black diamond another strand of small white diamonds dropped to the top of the wrist, where it joined a fine multi-strand bracelet. The effect of the large, black glittering stone set into such a delicate ornament was exotic and unusual. Once seen, it could not be forgotten.

“By the way,” Cazzie said as I gazed at the image, “in the folder I've also included a brief history of the diamond. I doubt that has any direct bearing on its disappearance, but since you are trying to find the diamond, I thought knowing something about it might help you.”

“How much is it worth?” I asked.

Cazzie shook her head. “A lot. You'll see in the articles I've included that when it was last at auction it set a new world-record price for a black diamond.”

“But if the diamond is so valuable, wouldn't it have had its own security guards?”

“Argh! Don't remind me!” Cazzie said. She started to pace the room again. “This is the bit that kills me. Just thinking about it…” She turned to face me. “Normally the diamond would have had at least a couple of guards with it, but it belongs to a young guy named Noah Tindle. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Did he create Tindle Computers?”

Cazzie nodded. “Noah is a friend of mine; or more specifically, his wife, Vanessa, is a very good friend of mine. She's a model and always says that I'm the one who got her career off the ground. So anyway, Noah owns the diamond. In fact, he owns quite a few gemstones. He has one of the largest private collections of gemstones in the world. All of his stones are unique, both because of their cut and color, and because of their provenance. Noah only likes stones that have dramatic love stories behind them.”

She actually cracked a small smile when she saw my surprise.

“I know—it doesn't quite fit the image of a computer geek. But since marrying Vanessa—I introduced them, by the way—he's been refining his collection to include only gemstones like the Black Amelia.

“Anyway, to get back to your question, yes, normally the diamond would have had a couple of security guards with it. But because I'm such an old friend of Noah's and Vanessa's, and because they were thrilled that the diamond would be used on the cover of
Chic
—Noah especially, because like many of these computer types, he's eager to be seen as interested in more than just software programs—they weren't particularly worried about the diamond's security. They knew it would be safe with me.

“They actually live in California, but Noah has been here for most of the last month, putting together a deal, so he had Vanessa send the diamond to him and he literally handed it to me early on Friday morning before the shoot, on his way to the airport. He was flying back home to see Vanessa and do some work at his HQ, so we made arrangements—thank God—that I was to keep it in the
Chic
safe for the entire week he's gone. He'll be back from California on Friday evening. I have to—
you
have to—find it by then. I feel like such a coward, not telling him anything, but how can I? How?”

She stood at the window, watching the traffic far below for a moment before continuing, her voice a whisper. “But if we don't have it back by Friday evening, then I'll have to tell Noah and the police—and Sid Clifton, the owner of this building and the magazine.” There was a pause before she turned to look at me, shoulders heavy with fear and fatigue. “Please, Axelle,” she begged, “please, you have to find the diamond. I didn't steal it, but somebody in the studio at that photo shoot did. And if I don't get it back…”

We both left the rest unsaid.

***

Ira was waiting outside for me as promised. I slid into the car, and we continued downtown to Miriam's agency on Mercer Street. We sped through Midtown in no time, with Ira speaking as quickly as he drove. I was given a running commentary on the city all the way down. The traffic lights remained green for us until we hit Houston, the wide street that bisected the city east to west and that, according to Ira, was the “Ho” in SoHo (an acronym for “South of Houston”). After the brazen scale and slick, shiny facades of the buildings around Times Square, I was unprepared for the super-trendy and almost quaint feel of SoHo. A warren of one-way, narrow streets like the rest of the city, SoHo was pulsating with life—but on a more human scale.

As Ira pulled up to the curb on Mercer Street, I also saw a marked difference between Miriam's agencies. In Paris, Miriam's was housed in a large, grand two-hundred-year-old stone building on a wide, elegant boulevard, while here, the agency's downtown location gave it a cool, funky vibe. The redbrick exterior and large loft-style windows looked friendly and unpretentious—an impression that was reinforced when I got out of the elevator on the top floor and found myself in the agency's lobby.

Jay-Z was playing over the music system, and models came and went, while a few photographers stood by the large wall of zed cards that acted as a room divider. Through large glass doors to my right I could see an enormous roof terrace with wooden decking and an assortment of small ornamental trees, high grasses, and colorful flowers—just like a meadow, only on a rooftop!

The sophisticated artsy-crafty vibe caught me by surprise. After speaking with Pat and hearing her admonition to “Look sharp!” I'd expected something less…fun.

At that moment I caught sight of a tall woman with short black hair waving at me from across the room. She stood on the other side of an enormous booking table, and she was backlit by the large windows I'd seen from the street below. Could she be Pat?

“Hi, Axelle,” she said loudly as she took her headset off and came toward me, “and welcome to New York City.” Her booming voice left me no doubt that, yes, this was indeed Pat. She was wearing a loose-fitting gray-and-black-striped top with three-quarter-length sleeves, black leggings, and flats. A pair of dangly earrings shook under her closely cropped Afro, which was short at the sides and a bit longer on top. She was in the process of giving me that fashion once-over I was starting to get used to. It's as if most fashion people can't talk to you until they figure out what kind of stylistic box to put you into.

“Not bad, Axelle, not bad. You've got that whole London, slightly boho, slightly edgy thing going… But what's with the glasses? Nobody told me you need glasses. And do they have to be so big? I mean, I know geeky is in and all, but still…”

She said the word “glasses” as if it was some kind of disease.

How could I explain that I'd worn them so long—even though I didn't really need them—that I didn't feel like myself without them? They gave me the anonymity I felt I lacked, especially now that I had some fashionable clothes and a model haircut. With my giant specs on, I could move around more freely, discreetly—and that was what a detective needed, right?

“Umm…my eyes dry out quickly with contacts so my optometrist told me to wear my glasses as much as possible,” I lied.

I felt Pat's eyes bore into me while she mulled over my excuse.

“Well, as long as they come off for castings, fittings, and bookings,” she finally said. “Got it? Good. Now let me quickly introduce you to everyone, and then let's go get some lunch. We have to talk and you must be starving.”