Hostile Makeover (18 page)

“You actually drink that sludge?” Johnson asked, apparently trying to be funny, perhaps even flirtatious. The odd couple’s pheromones were dancing in the air for one brief moment; then they came crashing into the cupboards and falling messily to the floor, as Cassandra bristled and Johnson looked away, embarrassed. “Oh, Peter . . .” Cassandra stopped herself, on the verge of tears, and ran out of the kitchen, spilling her herbal swill in every direction.

“What did I say?” Johnson asked himself, then he turned and saw Lacey. “I don’t get it.”

“Date much?” she asked.

He glowered and she exited quickly, trying not to laugh an unkindly laugh.
Not their fault: Echinacea one, pheromones zero.

Lacey returned to her desk to find an urgent call from Brooke. “Meet me at the foot of Farragut at ten thirty. We must talk.” Brooke meant the statue of Admiral David Farragut poised heroically in the center of Farragut Square across the street from
The Eye
’s offices, not far from Brooke’s posh gray flannel law offices. She also had a message from Miguel Flores: “Is it really true about Amanda the Terrible? Call me!” She left a message on his voice-mail.

Lacey took Brooke’s call as a cue to read DeadFed dot com before dashing over to the Square. Sure enough, Damon had risen early. “Supermodel Gunned Down in Dupont Circle.” The first subhead mentioned Lacey. “Fashion Sleuth Smithsonian Witnesses Amanda’s Fall.”
Oh, yes, the early bird caught the worm.
She didn’t tarry to read the story. It was enough to know she once again had been made to look like a comic book character, thanks to Damon’s yellow cyberjournalism.
If only I had Wonder Woman’s wardrobe. And figure. And those great bracelets!
Besides, Brooke would fill her in.

Lacey considered her cup of caffeinated sludge. She set it down, picked up her purse, and was out the door. Passing by Mac’s office she saw him raise an eyebrow. She waved gaily on her way out.

Three minutes later she spied Brooke tapping her foot impatiently at the statue in the square. She looked like the up-and-coming K Street lawyer that she was, wearing a tan suit and carrying a Burberry tote and matching umbrella, despite the lovely weather. Her long blond hair was braided down her back.

“Oh, my God, you
are
alive. I was worried to death. Did you get my voice mail last night?” Brooke asked. “I left it on your cell.”

“I never pay any attention to my cell phone,” Lacey replied. “Did you need a midnight consultation on the wisdom of wearing Burberry?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Brooke held up the tote. “Cost an arm and a leg, though.”

“As far as I know it isn’t a requirement of the Bar. Or is it a new rule? Did you ever stop to think that the government is slowly brainwashing the populace into buying Burberry? Note the subtle changes in the plaid. Could they be a code for secret treaty details with the Galactic Federation, or a road map to alien body storage in Area 51?”

Brooke took another look at her new Burberry tote, loving it all the more. “Lacey, if I could wear the price tag on the outside, I would. Or just the tag alone, as you suggested in
The Eye.
That’s all my colleagues care about.”

“That is appalling.”

“I’m not like you. I can’t find that perfect offbeat treasure in a no-name vintage boutique. You either have the talent or you don’t. Great suit, by the way. Is that the Gloria Adams? I thought so. But if it’s not new and expensive, it just doesn’t work for me.”

They walked to the Firehook Bakery for coffee. Once there, they gave in and bought chocolate croissants, then strolled back out to enjoy the spectacular autumn day in the square.

“If you think we lawyers are boring dressers in D.C., you ought to see what the Commonwealth of Virginia sends to court. Even I was surprised.”

“Really? Tell me more.” Lacey removed the notebook from her bag and lifted her pen in anticipation while Brooke indulged her. “I need some inspiration.”

“Are you willing to trade information for my very own little ‘Fashion Bite’?”

“Maybe.”

“Yesterday I steamrolled some neophytes from the Virginia attorney general’s office. The lead attorney wore a sleeveless light-blue tattersall dress with white tights and black vinyl slingbacks. It was just so wrong: summer dress, winter tights, shoes from Kmart. Hair defeated before she even began by some off-price stylist at Shags-R-Us,” Brooke said. “Her assistant was worse. Too old for long, stringy gray hair, bangs falling into her eyes. Suit a size too small, maybe two sizes. Gaping open across the tummy. Shoes from the Dumpster behind a Goodwill. You and your column are definitely right on the money sometimes, Lacey. Didn’t you write something like, ‘It’s hard to rise to the occasion when you’re not dressed for the occasion’? Case in point. Her look was shabby, and her argument was shabbier.”

“Did it impress the judge?” Lacey enjoyed fashion barbs launched at people who could and should be able to take it.

Brooke shook her head and licked latte off her lips. “Judges generally don’t like to be told what the statutes say and what they can and can’t do, even when they don’t know. I, on the other hand, know how to get the judge on my side, even when the law isn’t.” She and Lacey sat down on a park bench with their lattes. “Smart and beautiful beats dull and shabby every time. No surprise. But right now I need to know what
you
were up to last night. Have you seen DeadFed? Is that how I have to find out things about my best friend?”

Lacey was about to ask how Brooke’s boyfriend, Damon Newhouse, found out she was there, but of course—Turtledove was there, and he was a personal friend of Newhouse’s.

“I don’t know, Brooke. DeadFed seems pretty efficient. Unless you want to know the truth. And what Damon can’t confirm he merely makes up. The government’s ‘Bionic Babe Project’?”

“Details to follow. It’s a legitimate theory. And you’re confirming that you were there when Amanda was gunned down in cold blood?”

Lacey nodded yes, leaned back on the bench, and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how weary she was after her late-night tête-à-tête with Broadway Lamont. She inhaled the coffee aroma, then sipped the brew slowly to enjoy it.

“And you made a statement to the police without me?” Brooke smacked Lacey in the arm with the Burberry umbrella. “I am your attorney. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“Yeah, but it’s much more fun watching you go crazy.” Lacey wrestled away the umbrella, and Brooke glared. “And you are not supposed to assault your clients. Besides,
I
didn’t shoot her. However, this is privileged information, and you can’t tell Damon.”

“No fair.” Brooke groaned. “Okay, talk to me, Lacey.”

Lacey sighed. “This is the rundown. The privileged rundown. Two days ago I interviewed Amanda Manville, who told me someone was trying to kill her.” Brooke opened her mouth, but Lacey stopped her. “I’m sorry, but if you interrupt me, we’ll never get through this. Sometime that day, my 280ZX was stolen from the company’s garage. Yes, I know I never drive, but I did that day. What do the two events have to do with each other? Wait and see. Yesterday Amanda was shooting photos for her winter collection in Dupont Circle. I know this because Stella Lake did her hair and makeup for it. Small world, D.C., isn’t it? I decided to wander over, watch the photo shoot, and ask Ms. Manville some follow-up questions. She was shot before I could talk to her. That’s when I saw my car zoom away from the Circle. I think that’s where the shots came from. My poor little Z.” Lacey took a breath and a sip of coffee and held up a finger. “One more thing. Amanda Manville died this morning.”

“Oh, my God, Lacey. You’re involved in another murder.” Brooke sounded a little too eager. Lacey gave her a look. “I’m so sorry about your car. Don’t worry; we’ll go car shopping. But right now, what do we do next?”

“Next what?”

“To investigate, of course. Surely Amanda told you more than you’re telling me. Who’s the suspect? What about surveillance? I’ve got a new pair of night-vision binoculars. And I’m dying to test them out.”

“I’m sorry, Brooke. I forgot two salient points. Vic, with whom I was planning a romantic weekend, doesn’t want me to get involved with any more killers. He thinks it’s dangerous. Not to mention that I don’t want to get involved with any more killers. Because it
is
dangerous.”

“It’s not like you’re dating them.”

Lacey ignored her. “Amanda is, or was, a total nutcase. And to put the cherry on the top, my mother is coming this weekend. She thinks I need her, because my car was stolen. Perfectly good weekend plans destroyed. Bad weekend looming. Boyfriend bummed. Me too.”

“Good heavens, Lacey, have you been jinxed? Cursed by Gypsy fortune-tellers? I heard something about that little man in your office. I’m really sorry; there are a lot of obstacles here. But we shall overcome. So how are we going to go about our investigation?” Brooke lifted her latte in a salute.

“I’ll think about it and let you know. But for now, we’ll have to reschedule lunch. Duty calls.”

“Lacey, call me before you say anything else to the police again,” Brooke pleaded.

“You’re an alarmist, but you’re sweet.”

“Consider yourself warned by counsel.”

“And assaulted by counsel. Watch who you’re whacking with that umbrella.” She waved good-bye. They walked in opposite directions, Brooke toward K Street and Lacey toward Eye Street. She caught a glimpse of Trujillo crossing the Square, which gave her a chance to pump him for any extra details he may have discovered. He waited up for her. In her tango heels she was walking a little more sedately than usual.

“Tony, do you know if the police questioned Spaulding about Amanda Manville?”

“Hey, Lacey, how’s it going? Nice suit and shoes,” he said, evading the question. “Isn’t that your truth-justice-and-the-American-way suit?” His eyes took it in, and he smiled his approval. She loved that Trujillo was one of the few men in Washington, D.C., who could frankly appreciate a woman and get away with it.
No pheromone jammers for him.

“Is that another Lois Lane reference, smart guy?”

“Always. What would life at
The Daily Planet
be without its comic-book heroes?”

“Well, you’re one of ’em, Jimmy Olsen, but I want information.”

“Is this a trade?”

“Sure, why not.”

Tony laughed and slapped her on the back. “I might know a thing or two. And I’m not Jimmy Olsen. Hanging out on the police beat and all. Then there’s the additional perk of it being a high-profile case, what with the late Ms. Manville being the famous makeover supermodel. I had to fight my way through the entertainment press and other riffraff to do my job. You know, she’s not the only crime in this city.”

“Come on, spill it. Did they interview Dr. Gregory Spaulding, Amanda’s former fiancé?”

“I love it when you beg.” It turned out, Tony said, that the police had indeed picked the surgeon up at his hotel and questioned Spaulding into the wee hours of the morning, but they eventually cut him loose. “He has a whole Mayflower Hotel full of alibis.”

“Broadway Lamont didn’t tell me anything,” Lacey complained.

“You dueled with the big guy? He wouldn’t. He doesn’t know you; he doesn’t know if he can trust you. You know cops take a while to warm up to us. Some never do. And Broadway Lamont is a hard case.”

“Not a song-and-dance man?”

“He’ll dance on your head if you’re not straight with him.”

In some ways, cops were the same everywhere, Lacey thought, big city or small town. But not in every way. It had taken a fair amount of time back in Sagebrush, Colorado, for Lacey to gain Vic’s trust when she was the police reporter and he was the chief of police. And that was aside from all the raging hormones, Vic’s pursuit of her, and Lacey’s rejection of Vic because he was married, although he was going through a divorce at the time. He was free now.

“And Smithsonian . . .” Tony yanked her back from a brief reverie.

“Yeah?”

“When he finds out your particular history, I predict our Detective Broadway’s not gonna be happy.”

“Can’t be helped; he’s not a happy man. And he can’t stop me from writing about it. It’s a really hot crime of fashion.”

“If you’re going to be that way about it, we can always tag-team this one.”

“Okay.” She brightened up. “You know my byline rule. Smithsonian before Trujillo.”

“Yeah, sure. Damned alphabet.”

“Mac already informed me you’ve got the cops part. As for me, I need to ask some questions. Fashion questions. Among other things.” She took a beat. “Tony, what do you know about a guy who may have been stalking Amanda? John Henry Tyler is a possible name; Johnny Monroe is another.”

“I heard the Tyler name, not the Monroe. A ‘pissy little twerp,’ according to my sources. Said the cops let him cool his heels most of the night, then questioned him this morning. He lawyered up and swears he had nothing to do with her death. And one of her bodyguards was apparently collaring him just when the shots were fired, so he’s alibied, too. They had to let him go this morning.”

“Really. I saw him spit at her after she was shot.”

“That lacks dignity, man.”

“To say the least.” Tony headed for the lobby, but Lacey suddenly decided against going back to the office. Instead she waved Tony on and caught a taxi back to Snazzy Jane’s in Georgetown.

Last time Snazzy Jane’s was expecting me,
she thought.
Let’s see how snazzy Jane looks when she’s caught by surprise.