Designer Knockoff (29 page)
“I see you pick up the phone, I see you run to the window, I hear the big bang. So who’s on the phone, what’s the stupid story, and just what in the ever-loving hell is going on?”
Lacey felt sick inside, but struggled for composure. “I don’t know; someone blew up Felicity’s van.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Some idiot with a low voice. I had a similar call this morning on voice mail, but I don’t know if it was the same guy. Maybe if I had caller ID we could trace it.” Mac grumbled. The policy was that reporters should answer the phone no matter who was on the other end. No screening allowed.
“This is a fine mess. They blow up Felicity’s van and they call you? Are they stupid or are you involved in the middle of some mess?”
“Maybe they meant to call Felicity and got me by mistake.”
“Or maybe they meant to blow up your car and got hers by mistake. So what did you do?”
Men. They’re all alike. Always looking for someone to blame.
“My job, Mac! I was just doing my job. Maybe somebody meant to get Felicity.”
“My job, Mac! I was just doing my job. Maybe somebody meant to get Felicity.”
“Nah, everybody likes Felicity. Must be you; you’re always pissing someone off.” Lacey was about to spit out a reply when someone knocked at the door.
“Yeah?”
Trujillo stuck his head in. “We have some people here who’d like a word with Lacey. They’re trying to talk to Felicity, but she’s a little—upset.” Tony opened the door wider so Mac and Lacey could take a peek. Felicity appeared to be in shock, frozen at her desk, while a couple of D.C. cops tried to talk with her. “There’s a fire truck out front too. I wonder if they’ll give her a ticket for parking in the fire lane,” Trujillo said.
Lacey walked back to the window. The still smoking van was surrounded by cop cars. Firemen were dousing the smoldering ruin. No doubt there were agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms out there too. Could Homeland Security and the Federal Bureau of Investigation be far behind? She watched, mesmerized by the scene. She was vaguely aware of Mac shouting orders. “I want an editorial, front page, that’s right, front page. We will not be intimidated.” He was getting into the swing of it now. It was an impressive display of bravery. But then, she reflected, the smoldering wreckage wasn’t Douglas MacArthur Jones’s burgundy Lincoln Town Car with the plushy seats.
I regret that I have only one of Felicity’s minivans to give for my newspaper,
she imagined him saying.
I regret that I have only one of Felicity’s minivans to give for my newspaper,
she imagined him saying.
Aware of a presence near her, Lacey turned to see a man wearing black. Agent Gary Braddock quietly took in the chaos of the newsroom. “Ms. Smithsonian.”
“Always good to see you, Agent Braddock.”
“Glad to see you’re in one piece. Unlike your car.”
“Not mine. I don’t drive a minivan.” Lacey indicated Felicity, who was now tearfully wiping at her eyes. “Felicity Pickles. Food editor. It’s her car.”
“But you got a phone call and then ran to the window?”
“I gather there were witnesses.”
“Cops told me the car was yours.”
“They got it wrong. And the bomber got it wrong. I’ve got no idea why everyone thinks that minivan was mine. But hey, at least my car got lucky. My lucky day, huh?”
Mac waved them into his office for some semblance of privacy. He issued a general order to the newsroom at large. “Deadline, people. We are still on deadline, you can gawk after you’ve filed your stories.”
Mac left them alone and closed the door. Lacey sat down while Braddock leaned on the windowsill. He pulled out a small notebook. “I don’t have a full statement from her yet, but Ms. Pickles says she was helping you with your beat.”
“Helping me?!”
I’m sure she was helping me.
In spite of herself, Lacey felt her eyebrows rise and her eyes
roll. She was also rummaging through my desk.
“That would be novel.”
I’m sure she was helping me.
In spite of herself, Lacey felt her eyebrows rise and her eyes
roll. She was also rummaging through my desk.
“That would be novel.”
“She told me that she answered a call that came for you last week, while you were out. She knew how busy you were, so she picked up a story. She neglected to tell the caller she wasn’t you.”
“She neglected to tell me.”
He didn’t appear surprised. “Gave the name of Lawrence Zasker. We’re chasing the name. And the phone records. Apparently said he had a scoop about the new museum. That fashion museum. Ring a bell?”
“The museum, yes; Zasker, no. What kind of scoop?” Lacey peeked through the closed blinds into the newsroom. She saw a female police officer escorting a weeping Felicity out.
“According to Ms. Pickles, he didn’t say. They set up a couple of meetings, but he didn’t show up. He told her to wear a black suit so he would know her.”
“Damn, I thought she had a job interview.”
“Fashion clue?” Braddock deadpanned.
“Red herring.”
“You don’t like her.”
“I don’t think she was helping me. I think she was helping herself to my story.”
“This message ... whoever sent it waited until she was out of the car, no one was around, no one was hurt. No witnesses yet, either, but we’re still canvassing.”
“Maybe it was the Minivan Liberation Army.”
The faintest flicker of amusement showed in Braddock’s face. “Maybe the message was for you.”
“They never send roses. Of course it was for me. They called me to say, ‘Watch us blow up your car’ ! Only they didn’t bother to say who or why or which stories pissed them off.”
“This is a pretty emphatic message for insulting someone’s tie. You must have hit a nerve.”
Lacey picked up a copy of
The Eye
and showed it to him: the pictures of Esme Fairchild and Gloria Adams. “Take your pick—the Bentleys, the senator, the Fairchilds, Esme’s killer—who knows? And there’s always my column. And my anonymous callers. Hell, someone tried to break into my apartment last night.” Braddock opened his mouth to speak. “And no, I didn’t recognize him; he was trying to play maintenance man. And yes, I filed a police report in Alexandria.”
The Eye
and showed it to him: the pictures of Esme Fairchild and Gloria Adams. “Take your pick—the Bentleys, the senator, the Fairchilds, Esme’s killer—who knows? And there’s always my column. And my anonymous callers. Hell, someone tried to break into my apartment last night.” Braddock opened his mouth to speak. “And no, I didn’t recognize him; he was trying to play maintenance man. And yes, I filed a police report in Alexandria.”
“Now that we’ve narrowed the field of suspects to the entire capital region, I’m sure we’ll get someplace,” Braddock said. “We’ll be looking at your phone records too.”
“But they didn’t get my car. The morons.”
“Nobody said these guys are smart, Ms. Smithsonian. After all, they took Ms. Pickles for you, and I have to say the resemblance is minimal. Nice snood, by the way.”
“Thanks. Felicity won’t be answering my phone anymore.”
“Probably not. Now what’s your cell phone number?”
“I don’t have one. I hate them. Don’t believe in them.”
Braddock opened the door. “Mr. Jones, would you join us, please?” he called out.
Mac, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened, returned to his office. He handed Lacey a small black object as he walked in. “This is your new cell phone, courtesy of
The Eye.
I want you to keep it with you at all times. Sleep with it under your pillow. Oh, and Lacey, I want you to use it when you get in trouble.”
The Eye.
I want you to keep it with you at all times. Sleep with it under your pillow. Oh, and Lacey, I want you to use it when you get in trouble.”
“When
I get in trouble? Show some faith, Mac.”
I get in trouble? Show some faith, Mac.”
Agent Braddock held out his hand. “May I?”
She gave it to him and he punched in a direct dial number to one of his phones. “Call me if you get another threat, any kind of threat. We don’t want to see any more smoking vehicles. They’re an environmental problem.” Braddock handed the phone to Mac, who coded in
The Eye’s
phone number. “Any questions?”
The Eye’s
phone number. “Any questions?”
“Does this thing come with an instruction book?” Lacey had no idea how it worked, so Braddock gave her a brief tutorial. He gave her a look that Lacey interpreted as his I’d-tell-you-to-stay-out-of-trouble-but-I-know-it-won’ t-do-any-good look and left. She saw him laughing with Trujillo across the newsroom before Mac shut the door again.
Her boss wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Honest to God, whoever thought the bag-and-shoes beat would be such a problem?” He saw the hopeful look on her face. “And don’t entertain any ideas about a new beat. If this kind of thing happens to you on fashion, I don’t know what you’d do in the news pen.”
“You could try me. I’m fresh out of minivans to blow up.” Mac indicated the cell phone. “You are to carry that with you wherever you go. I have told you
The Eye
does not ask its reporters to put themselves in danger. As you apparently already are, we will try to mitigate those circumstances. First, you can take a leave of absence.”
The Eye
does not ask its reporters to put themselves in danger. As you apparently already are, we will try to mitigate those circumstances. First, you can take a leave of absence.”
“No way, Mac. You know I can’t do that.” She said it automatically, but then wondered about the wisdom of that decision.
“Felicity is going to take a few weeks off. Effective immediately. Think about it.”
It was way past time to go home. Mac agreed to let her turn in her column the next day. Lacey went back to her desk to collect her things. She found someone replacing her phone. The new one had a little screen with caller identification. She’d learn all about that tomorrow. Her glorious bouquet was drooping and she picked off a few more dead blossoms.
As Lacey headed for the door she was greeted by the unexpected sight of her friend Brooke Barton waiting for her at the reception desk.
“Lacey, I gather you were the intended target?” There was an unhealthy glow of excitement about her.
“News travels fast when you’re having fun. How’d you find out so quickly?”
“Guess. Okay, I’m taking you out of here, Ms. Bomb Bait. You are officially under my protection as of this minute, and don’t even think about making a break for freedom.”
“Thanks for the lift. I’ll be fine,” Lacey said as they pulled into the parking lot of her building. “I’ll get my car back tomorrow. You don’t have to come up on my account.” Lacey was as exhausted as if she’d built the bomb and blown up the minivan herself. She planned to throw her accursed new cell phone under the sofa and go straight to bed.
“I’m not leaving you in your hour of need. Let’s order a pizza.” Brooke took her keys from the ignition and locked the Club on the steering wheel.
Lacey thought for a moment. Spending the evening alone suddenly sounded less and less attractive. “Pepperoni?”
“And mushrooms and black olives and onions,” Brooke agreed.
Lacey figured she’d regret that. But life was short, and she might as well pile up a few more regrets. On her way in, she noticed the match still in her door. Her apartment had not been tampered with.
Lacey’s brush with disaster apparently offered the perfect excuse for an impromptu party at her apartment. Damon Newhouse, with a personal invitation from Brooke, showed up following the pizza boy. He strode triumphantly into the living room with a six-pack of Magic Hat Number Nine. Brooke loosened her top button, kicked off her heels, took the beer, and kissed him as passionately as if someone had tried to blow up her Acura. Damon hugged Lacey like a long-lost sister. Lacey changed out of her green Forties suit and into a lavender knit top and comfortable navy shorts.
Wearing beat-up boots and denim, Trujillo showed up soon after with a bottle of tequila with a worm in the bottom. Lacey urged him to drink up. Mac and his wife, Kim, brought a big bucket of fried chicken. Kim was Japanese-American and turned out to be the total California girl. She actually had a mellowing effect on Mac away from the office. Mac and Damon were soon doing tequila shots together.
Another visitor showed up. “Having a party?” he accused Lacey. “I came here with an update. And a thing of beauty.” Miguel produced the completed bodice with embroidered midriff and shoulder insets.
“It’s exquisite. And it’s not a party, Miguel; it’s a pizza that got out of control. After the car exploded.”
“A car exploded?”
“Outside the office. Somebody blew up my imaginary minivan. Oh, never mind. Come on in and have a drink.”
Trujillo offered him the tequila and a lime. Miguel took one look at the worm. “You’ve got to be kidding, amigo. Is there any decent wine? Say, a nice pinot grigio, for example?”
“I brought wine and chocolate.” The tiny but strong-voiced Stella popped through the open door. “Lacey, I came the minute I heard about the explosion at
The Eye.
I knew you had to be involved somehow. And you need your friends.”
The Eye.
I knew you had to be involved somehow. And you need your friends.”
“And now you’re even psychic.”
“Right. I’m not. But Marie is. She’ll be over as soon as she locks up the Little Shop of Horus. I called her, but she already knew! Psychic.”
“Why not? Barnum and Bailey are dropping by later. You said you brought chocolate?”
“Godiva.” She handed the box to Lacey, who opened it, selected one, took a bite, and let the flavor explode in her mouth. The bite of chocolate felt like it saved her life. Saved her from screaming, at least. She directed Miguel to drink Stella’s wine and after thoroughly washing her hands, took the bodice into the bedroom to see if it fit. Brooke, Stella, and Kim followed, drawn by the irresistible lure of viewing another woman’s closet. Damon, Trujillo, and Mac were out on the balcony drinking their individual poisons and measuring each other’s little journalistic empires.
When Lacey reemerged for Miguel to oversee the fit, the ladies followed. Brooke was in a dither. “My God, Lacey, I didn’t know it was that fancy! Now I really have to shop.”
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