Stolen with Style (6 page)

I took a deep breath before turning to Ellie. “On Sunday—yesterday—while Mom and I were making dinner, Mom left her phone on the kitchen counter while she ran up to her bedroom to get something. And then her phone lit up with a text message—from Sebastian!”

“Oh no…don't tell me… You looked, didn't you?”

I nodded. “I had to. I know I shouldn't have—but how could I
not
? Honestly, could you have ignored that?”

Ellie shrugged her shoulders. “No, probably not…but it depends. I mean, they could have been planning a surprise party for you or something. You never know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, this was no surprise party. I read their messages, and… Oh, Ellie, I was so angry with them! I was fuming! Apparently my mom was trying to convince Sebastian to keep an eye on me while we were in New York, to make sure that I modeled and kept any detective work to a minimum. According to my mom, my ‘modeling career is far more important than any detective case'—
and
Sebastian
agreed!
” Just thinking about it made my anger flare. Lips pursed, I stopped talking to let the breeze cool me down.

“Oops,” Ellie said. After a moment she continued, “But what did he tell you? He must have had a good reason for saying what he said. I mean, he knows how much your detective work means to you—he helped you solve your last case.”

“Yeah, well, I confronted him about it over the phone and he didn't deny talking to my mom.” I took another deep breath. “And after I'd heard that, well, it wasn't as if I needed to hear more. I told him we shouldn't talk anymore.”

Ellie looked at me, her wide eyes incredulous, but she didn't say anything.

“Anyway, I'm sure it's for the better,” I said, mustering as much finality as I could.

“What do you mean by that?”

We started walking again.

“Well, imagine: if I did still like him, and he was here with me, he'd only be a distraction. I mean, have you ever tried working with someone when all you want to do is kiss them? Not that I want to kiss him anymore, but you know what I mean.”

Ellie laughed. “Sure. My last boyfriend was a male model, and we worked together sometimes, but I wasn't inordinately distracted.”

“That doesn't really count,” I answered. “I mean, it's not like while modeling together he'd be distracting you from potentially life-threatening situations or keeping you from saving someone. Not unless a huge light was about to fall on you or the photographer suddenly croaked on set or something. But what are the chances of that happening?”

“Do you have to be so dramatic? And by the way, modeling can be dangerous. Like when I had to model faux fur coats in the Nevada desert last summer. A model fainted from heatstroke on set.”

I rolled my eyes. “That's not the same thing. Anyway, like I said, it's just as well that we aren't together. If I don't solve this case quickly, my reputation as a detective will be flatter than a gladiator sandal. I don't need to have a distraction who spies for my mom hanging around me.”

“That's what you
think
.”

“That's what I know.”

“What was it you told me last week, Axelle, about evidence?” Ellie asked. “Something about how, as a detective, it's stupid to jump to any conclusion until you've gathered all the evidence possible, because otherwise you risk making a major mistake.”

I didn't say anything.

“Well, you might want to consider applying your sleuthing techniques to the non-detective parts of your life too.”

“Thanks, Nancy Drew.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself, but I bet he comes to New York. He might already be here looking for you. And then what will you do?”

“Work on my case.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Duh. I mean, with or without him?”

“He'll probably be too busy sending my mom feedback to have much time to help me out.”

Ellie looked at me intently before asking, “Seriously, suppose he does show up and can help you—don't you think that you'll want his help?”

“Maybe.”

“And I bet you'll forget all about him spying for your mom once you kiss him again.”

“No I won't.”

“No you won't forget he's spying for your mom, or no you won't kiss him?”

“Both.”

Ellie sighed. “Well, I still think he's totally into you—and I know you're into him. Even if you won't admit it.”

“What I'm really into right now is solving this case,” I told her, changing the subject once and for all.

***

“That's Juice Studios over there,” Ellie said a few minutes later, pointing to an old redbrick building on the corner of the street below us that ran perpendicular to the High Line. “The one with all the big windows.”

Juice Studios was housed in a former factory building at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Tenth Avenue. It sat calmly, serenely commanding its corner of the block. Seen from afar on a quiet evening, the building didn't look like one of the city's most popular fashion photography venues. According to what Pat had told me at lunch, not a day went by—weekends included—without a magazine editorial or some major fashion campaign being shot on the premises. I looked on as a fashionista exited the studios and quickly disappeared into a waiting black Escalade. Then I continued to watch as the last rays of daylight lit up the studio's industrial windows and made its redbrick facade glow orange in the setting sun. A minute later, the sun was gone.

In the twilight, the studios—vast, empty, and painted white—sat like silent film sets, waiting for the models and fashion teams to bring them to life the following morning.

And
if
those
walls
could
talk,
I thought,
I'd love to hear what they could tell me.

“Axelle, I have to get going or I'll be late,” Ellie said suddenly. “I'm supposed to be at Ralph Lauren for a fitting in twenty-five minutes. If you're going home to Miriam's, we can share a cab uptown. You can drop me off and then keep going.”

***

Once the yellow cab had dropped Ellie at the Ralph Lauren building, it was only a matter of minutes before it deposited me outside Miriam's.

The elegant lobby in Miriam's building made a distinct contrast to what I'd seen in the last few hours. Comparing the tall, stately art deco building to the low brick buildings of SoHo and the blackened old warehouses of the Meatpacking District—not to mention the funky charm of the High Line—was like comparing a pair of comfy old jeans to a haute couture dress. They both were good, but very different.

Earlier, Nicolette had told me that she retired to her rooms after seven in the evening, so after taking the elevator up, I let myself into the apartment with the key Pat had given me at lunch.

The apartment was quiet, yet alive. As I stood in Miriam's high-ceilinged, wood-paneled living room and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park West, Columbus Circle, and Fifth Avenue lay before me like spangled ribbons teeming with life. Thousands of lit windows punctuated the vast cityscape, glowing like faraway fireflies. It was magical. Even from this height, the city vibrated with a hushed frenzy that was addictive to watch.

But sleep was beckoning—it was now 2:00 a.m. London time. Slowly I walked to my room and checked my messages. I quickly sent texts to my mom and dad, and Jenny too. Still nothing from Sebastian, I noticed.

But that was what I wanted, wasn't it?

I knew Ellie hadn't believed that—and Jenny had thought I was beyond hope. “What?” she'd said last night in London, when she'd come to help me pack. “You're finally wearing heels and have a decent haircut,
and
you've snogged the cutest, hottest guy in Paris—and now you don't want to talk to him? Please, will you one day make sense to me?”

Of course, when Jenny put it like that, she made my decision sound silly. But it wasn't that simple, I thought as I stomped off to the bathroom.

After a long, hot shower I slipped between the cool sheets of my bed and stretched. For the umpteenth time I pushed Sebastian out of my mind. Then I pulled out Cazzie's notes, trying to focus on the Black Amelia. But it was hopeless. Within moments, I was asleep.

I woke up early. By 5:00 a.m. local time—which was 10:00 a.m. London time—I was wide awake. I got out of bed and went to find my laptop. It was time to get to work.

I turned it on and grabbed the folder Cazzie had given me. Carefully I perused the brief biographies she'd compiled for everyone on the list she'd given me yesterday and then transferred her notes to my laptop. Then I started to look for more information on the group. But with the enormous amount of career news, photos, magazine stories, and blog posts online, I could have spent a day researching just one of the group, let alone all of them.

Hmm,
I thought,
maybe
when
Sebastian—
Argh! I cut myself off right there.
Stop, Axelle.
He's helping Mom, remember?
Before any of Ellie's admonitions from last night started ringing through my mind, I told myself that I would just start with basic background research and do more when I found the time.

I quickly jotted down the few things that caught my eye, then moved on to the Black Amelia. I made sure to add the information I'd gleaned at the museum to the details I already had on the diamond from Cazzie, and then I did a quick web search, pasting anything I found interesting into my notes. Together it all formed a fascinating kaleidoscope of the diamond's tumultuous past.

After a couple of hours I got out of bed and moved to the desk. Slowly I pored over everything I'd put together…

As with most famous diamonds, the Black Amelia's history is no less dazzling than the stone itself. Originally discovered deep in the Brazilian jungle by a nineteenth-century American explorer, the diamond_then in its rough, uncut state_was double its current size of eighty-three carats. According to legend, it was stolen by the explorer from a sacrificial altar, along with a hoard of other jewels and gold.

However, before leaving the jungle, the explorer became ill with a deadly virus and perished there. The diamond was taken by his valet, who hid it in a secret pocket sewn into his jacket and took it back to his hometown in Portugal. But knowing that the value of such a rare diamond would enable him to start a new life and fearing for his safety as long as he kept it, he decided to leave for the Flemish city of Antwerp, the diamond capital of the world.

There he sold the stone to a famous diamond merchant who finally cut it. Because black diamonds are so difficult to cut, it took the merchant four years and much of the original carat size was lost. But the resulting stone was still the largest black diamond anywhere in Europe at that time. The merchant then sold the diamond, now set as a brooch and christened the “Eye of Brazil,” to a rich banker, and for the next one hundred years it lay quietly in a family vault.

In the 1960s, however, the diamond was put up for sale at auction in London. There a famous British stage actor bought it for the woman he was in love with, the Mexican actress Amelia de la Roja.

Amelia had the jewel reset as a pendant and wore it everywhere, until it became as famous as she was. At this time the press began calling the diamond the Black Amelia. Meanwhile, Amelia de la Roja married and divorced the British stage actor twice. Then, after they'd both retired from the screen and stage, they married for a third time, thus starting the legend that a woman in possession of the Black Amelia could never fall out of love with the man who'd given it to her.

When Amelia de la Roja died, the diamond was again sold at auction_this time to raise money for the charities she'd named as beneficiaries of her estate. The famous punk rocker Kean Feral bought it for his wife, and to commemorate their love, he promptly had the stone reset in an elaborate hand chain bracelet. When Kean Feral later died of a drug overdose, the diamond passed into the hands of tech billionaire and gem collector Noah Tindle.

I got up to stretch. At least my online research had confirmed what the museum assistant had told me about black diamonds being difficult to cut. The idea of the diamond being stolen for resale now looked weaker than ever… In fact, so far, I couldn't think of a reason why anyone would want to steal such a famous jewel. Nor, I thought as I returned to my desk and scrolled through the brief biographies I'd compiled, was it easy to imagine anyone from this small, elite fashion group as a thief. And yet one of them must have taken the diamond…

Peter Van Oorst: Photographer, Dutch citizen, thirty years old, has been living in New York for twelve years. Started as an assistant to a number of well-known fashion photographers before branching out on his own, after which success came rapidly. He's often described as the leading fashion photographer of his generation. Smiling in all the photos I saw on Google. (I'm not sure that means anything, though.) Girlfriend is a junior fashion editor.

Trish Fine: Makeup artist from New York, thirty-five years old, famous for the way she does smoky eyes. Internationally in demand and launched her own makeup line three years ago (together with a major cosmetics firm). Assisted various well-known makeup artists in NYC, then moved to Paris for a few years to hone her skills before returning to NYC. In promotional photos, she wears her long orange hair teased at the top, goes heavy on the eyeliner, and pouts. Single.

Tom Urbino: Italian, from Milan, thirty-seven years old. Famous for his “natural” looking hairstyles. Also known for liking to work with whatever is at hand, such as olive oil, hand lotion, or seawater. Tom claims this gives hair a more “organic context.” Manages to wear cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and beaded jewelry without looking overly ridiculous. Has his own mega-salon in NYC and an olive-oil-based hair product line. Lots of photos on Facebook of him partying.

Chandra Rhodes: Model, seventeen years old, from California. Shoulder-length, sandy-blond hair and gray eyes. Loves to sail and surf. Took six months off to sail with her father and sister, and sent regular blog dispatches from around the world. Has just signed a contract to represent a major cosmetics firm. Is developing her own vitamin-packed smoothie mix. Splits her time between a beach house in Northern California and a loft in NYC. Boyfriend is a carpenter in California.

Misty Parker: Model, eighteen years old, from a farm outside Cleveland, Ohio. Wholesome looks with corn-yellow hair and cool blue eyes. On her way to accumulating more covers than any other model. From the beginning she has been selective about the work she accepts. She is now poised to launch a major acting career. Keeps a large, long-haired cat, which has become an Instagram sensation, in her SoHo apartment. Not romantically linked to anyone at the moment.

Rafaela Cruz: Model, nineteen years old, born in New York City, parents from Cuba. Long, dark brown hair and caramel eyes. Strong, fun personality (judging from her Twitter feed and Instagram photos). Popular with other models and, crucially, fashion designers. She opened more shows last season than any other girl. Rumored to be dating a hip-hop artist. Just bought herself an apartment in the West Village.

Brandon Hart: Native New Yorker, twenty years old, studied photography at Columbia University. Does digi-tech work for fun. His father is a majority shareholder in a large luxury fashion brand conglomerate, and his mother is a former supermodel. He works exclusively for Peter.

*Cazzie says: “Brandon is gorgeous. I've asked him a million times to model, but he's absolutely not interested.”

**I say: I couldn't find anything online about him apart from his digi-tech work, his Instagram account, and stuff on his parents. Bit of a dark horse in this lineup.

Cazzie Kinlan: British citizen, thirty-two years old, has been working as editor-in-chief of
Chic: New York
for six years but has been living in NYC for twelve years. Live-in boyfriend, workaholic. Travels to the shows in Paris, London, and Milan for the prêt-à-porter and haute couture. Seems to earn a good income, including a clothing allowance. Other perks include a business expense account, chauffeured car (Ira), and phone. Good reputation.

My phone rang, abruptly pulling me from my thoughts.

“Axelle? Are you sleeping?” It was Pat. Why was she calling me so early? The agency didn't even open for another hour! “I'm calling to make sure you're awake. It's eight o'clock—and you have to be at Juice Studios for your
Chic
shoot in an hour. Hasn't anyone told you that fashion never sleeps?”

“But I do,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“That's not funny, Axelle.” Did she ever soften up? I wondered. She seemed to have more hard edges than my grandma's old crocodile handbags—no matter what time of the day it was.

“Good thing I called,” she continued. “Now wake up and take note. I got an email late last night confirming the time for your show casting at Jared Moor. It's at five o'clock. I'll email that to you so you don't forget, and then
blah, blah, blah…
” I tuned her out because I'd just received a text. I put Pat on speakerphone and read the following message:

Can you meet me now? I'll be at the coffee shop at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Cazzie

“Axelle? Are you there?”

“Yes. Yes, I am!” I said, dragging my attention back to Pat. I quickly noted the few other details she gave me concerning my day and then finally managed to get her off the phone.

What
could
Cazzie
want?
I thought as I pulled on my robe and headed to the bathroom. I quickly texted her to say I'd be with her in thirty minutes, then jumped into the shower. Ten minutes later—notes in my bag and fresh NYC bagel in hand—I was on the street and running at full speed to the subway station.

***

Cazzie was standing outside the coffee shop waiting for me. She was clearly distraught; my wet hair and overall dishevelment didn't even garner a second glance.
What's good about rushing while dressing
is
that
at
least
you
don't look like you've tried
, I reminded myself. In the minefield of fashion, trying too hard was even worse than not trying at all. On that positive thought, I followed Cazzie as she led me, her teetering red stilettos softly clicking, to a corner table in the back.

“I'm sorry to call you so early but you have to see this—and I don't want to deal with it at Juice when we're working together,” she said without preamble. “It came about an hour ago. I'm feeling a bit sick.”

Taking her phone I read the new text message:

Clever Cazzie, clever Cazzie. So they say, but are you really? Let's find out! You'll be sent three riddles to answer. Let's hope you get them right!

The light, breezy tone, coupled with the threatening undercurrent of the message, brought the image of the deranged joker back to mind. It had been sent at seven thirty this morning—not long before Cazzie contacted me.

“Scroll further down,” she said. “I quickly wrote back because I wanted to get a reaction. I don't know if it was the right thing to do…but it's too late now.”

Cazzie had written:

I need to see the diamond by Friday.

The answer was unnerving:

Shut up! I'm the one in control now—not you, you stupid fashionista. You'll see the treasure if and when I want you to. Now you've upset me so I'll have to delay your first riddle. That's too bad—for you. I was going to send it later today, but now who knows? Maybe you won't see anything by Friday. That's my choice.

In the meantime, enjoy the fashion shows!

The vagueness of the messages was infuriating—which I guessed was the point. Whoever was doing this was clearly enjoying their new power. But why? And would the riddles reveal some kind of ransom or demand? At least this person definitely seemed to have the diamond… So could this be leading to blackmail?

“Blackmail?” Cazzie asked when I said as much. “But they've insinuated that I'll see the diamond again if I ‘answer correctly.'” She was rereading the texts she'd been sent.

“The riddles they say they'll send might actually be demands for ransom. If so, they might be assuming you'll give in to them. At least that's what it sounds like to me. I see the number was ‘unknown' again.”

She nodded. “I'd love to trace it, but I can't possibly show this to anyone, can I? Someone might start asking questions. And anyway, I know from past experience at the magazine that something like this is almost impossible to trace. I'd have to call the police, and that's something I absolutely cannot do—not yet anyway. Look how I've angered them just by responding. Who knows what they'd do if they found out I'd called the police? But maybe if I play their game there's a chance I can get the diamond back by Friday.”

She roughly pushed her empty coffee cup away and turned to look out the window, letting out a long sigh. Today she was wearing a pair of distressed skinny jeans and a Chanel tweed jacket with something silky and white peeking out from underneath. The black circles under her eyes matched her jacket.

“I'm dreading the shoot later,” she finally said. “The thought that someone in that group has probably taken the diamond, that they could be the one taunting me with these messages—and then having to rub shoulders with them all day…”

“Play it cool. Whoever is doing this—whether they're one of the group or not—is hoping that you
will
crack. They're trying to scare you. As they've just pointed out, they're in control. So don't let your behavior remind them that they are.” I waited a moment before continuing. “Can you can think of anything you've said or done to any of that group, anything to make someone angry enough to try blackmailing you? Or to seek revenge against you?”

She shook her head. “Honestly—no, I can't think of anything. Like I told you yesterday, I've known Peter, Trish, and Tom for years and consider them good friends. I've known the models since they started, and I know Brandon, who I really like, through his mother. She was like a mentor to me when I started modeling. I've never had a fight or even a disagreement with any of them. Honestly.”