2 Death of a Supermodel (8 page)

The makeup bag was filled with little plastic containers of brand new, super-expensive makeup made in Sweden. She pulled out an unmarked amber bottle of pills. She turned the plastic cylinder in her palm and estimated about ten capsules clicking away in there. Putting the bottle to the side, she moved to the wallet. Every card listed Sabine Fosh, which must have been some sort of fake name. Or maybe Thomasina was the fake name. But who would fake-name themselves Thomasina? She couldn’t have chosen something less catchy.

The receipts created a problem. She couldn’t write down everything about them, and she wasn’t so past the point of no return that she’d keep them. She heard a hard hacking cough from the other side of the paper-thin wall. She pressed her ear to it and heard another cough as if it were in her own bedroom, but she heard no other voices. She knocked gently on the wall.

“Jeremy?”

His voice came in from the other side. “I knew it was you back there. Your show is done. Go home. Take a few hours off.”

“Can I borrow your copy machine?”

“Come around.”

She grabbed the little wallet and the receipts and walked down the hall.

He was already waiting for her at his office door. He unlocked it and stood aside. “You know where it is.”

She didn’t look at him because she was trying not to think about what she was doing. She was taking receipts from a dead woman’s wallet and photocopying them before she handed them over to the police, because… why?

Because she knew in her heart that she was going to try to pull another Pomerantz. She had no time, no space in her life to do it. She had been told not to. It was stupid and egotistical. But her sister was in trouble, and she didn’t know why. Though she wanted to trust the system, and maybe she
did
trust the system, she was going to see if she could solve another murder. She tried not to think about it, and the more she tried not to, the more the truth stamped its feet and demanded attention.

“What are you doing?” Jeremy asked as he pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

“No. What are
you
doing? You look like hell.”

“Thanks.” He smiled, and she smiled back, then he coughed again. “Paper needs to be pushed even on a show week. Come on, you used to be full time here. You know the drill.” He pulled a pill bottle from his pocket and tapped out a couple.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know then what I know now. Are you getting sick?”

“Fighting it. The plane rides to China are brutal. Even in first class, everyone’s spitting phlegm. Beijing’s a sewer of germs. I met the president of this manufacturing conglomerate and he was hocking in the street.” He slid the pills into his mouth and knocked them back with a swig from the water bottle.

“Okay. Gross.” She separated the receipts by date, placing them on the glass to fit one day per page. “You can’t do this unless you’re going to start walking around the office in an iron lung.”

She expected an argument, but instead, he said, “Gracie might have been right.”

“She wasn’t right. She was scared. You just have to do it differently than everyone else. You can’t fly all around the world looking at factories, period. You’re no good to anyone dead.”

He leaned on the fridge with his bottle of water, looking tired and drawn, as though he wanted to say something he was holding back. “When is Ivanah going to start bossing you around?” She sensed that wasn’t what he’d really wanted to discuss.

“I’m sure that we’re going to have to take money from them in about two weeks, when we run dry. She’ll start butting in right after. Figure I’ll be in your office in about three weeks to borrow your rhinestone sample books.” She gathered the receipts, which Jeremy probably assumed were hers, and stuffed them back into the wallet.

“You know, she has a big PR machine that could help put a lid on the Thomasina Wente thing. Between now and the next two weeks, it would be in her interest to help you with it.” He sipped his water and looked for her reaction over the bottle.

On a whim, and because she wasn’t ready to walk out of the office yet, she copied the credit cards. “You saying I should draw her in now, assuming she’s going to be a creative partner, and ask her to get her public relations people or press agent or whoever to spin the Thomasina thing? Then what if Pierre actually comes up with the alternate backing he keeps promising?”

He shrugged. “The PR firm’s on retainer. No loss for her, really.”

She had no idea how it all worked, nor did she understand how you kept a firm on retainer, though she knew that was something you did if you were really loaded. What she did understand was that Jeremy was the same manipulative user he’d always been, and she was glad he was on her side.

“How’s Ruby holding up?” he asked.

“The cops are grilling her good, and she’s supposed to be in the showroom, otherwise—”

“I mean about Thomasina.”

“Fine, I guess.”

He tossed the empty bottle away. “Well, now that the show’s over, you can pay attention to your boyfriend. He can’t like your hours.”

“Who?”

“The guy in the bike shorts.” Jeremy waved his hand, as if to draw the name into his head.

“Stu?”

“Right. The one who interviewed me for some article.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Jeremy sucked his lips in, and the lower part of his face got very tense. She thought maybe he was trying not to smile, but then pushed the thought out of her head.

“Ruby said—”

Laura cut him off. “Ruby subsists on hope and imagination. He and I were over before we started.”

“How do you feel about that?” He was smiling again, which freaked her out almost as much as a question with the word
feel
in it. Jeremy didn’t ask about feelings, and he didn’t talk about them either. Feelings weren’t business.

“I feel fine,” she said.

“Good. I’m very happy to hear it. Very happy.”

He looked as though he wanted to say more, but Laura couldn’t think of a practical reason to linger. On her way out, she glanced back at him. He stood in front of Renee’s desk, smiling.

When she returned to her showroom, she stuffed the papers back into the wallet. As she was about to put the pill bottle back into the inside pocket, she covered her hand with her sleeve, opened the bottle, and popped a little capsule into her palm. Having gone over the edge into buttinski mode, she saw no reason to hold back and slipped the pill into her pocket. Then she picked up the cellphone and checked for new messages. Nothing. Bobcat had been the last. She guessed everyone knew there was no point in texting a dead woman.

Bobcat.

Stupid. Of course, it was Bob Schmiller. She marveled at the complete douchebaggery of it. She got angry on Ivanah’s behalf and wondered if he’d invested in Sartorial to gain access to Thomasina, screwing over Ivanah’s desire for her own company. By the time she had the bag repacked, she was mad as hell. She wanted nothing to do with him. Then, she thought, maybe, just maybe, she should get to know him a little better if she wanted to find out who had killed Thomasina Wente.

She put the bag on the table with a note for Corky saying she realized it was Thomasina’s. She left Cangemi’s card so Corky could call for the police to come and get it. She had nothing else to do, and it was too late to go back to her bed in Bay Ridge, so she went to her shoot.

CHAPTER 5.

The train to Williamsburg was quiet, and she almost missed Bedford Avenue because she was dozing off. When she exited, it was four o’clock, two hours before call, and the bars were just closing. Tuesday night/Wednesday morning revelers strolled, stumbled, and rolled into the street. Gypsy cabs trolled under the lightening sky, radios buzzing, and slowed outside the station, looking for a fare too drunk to walk home.

She found a diner that had been in business since at least the 1970s, so unhip as to be wildly hip. The guy behind the counter looked as if he slept under the grill where the clattery metal cooking doodads were stored when he wasn’t counting out greasy bills with Botox-injected fingers. She sat at the counter, trying not to notice the flakes of rainbow translucence floating on the surface of her coffee. A newspaper lay within reach—
The Daily News
, folded with the headline pressed against the counter. She slid it closer and opened it. She had made a point of avoiding the headlines when she passed the newsstand because she knew something she didn’t want to see would be on the front page. She was right, but her fear that it would be her face, in all its unmade-up exhaustion, was unfounded. Thomasina’s job was to be in print, and she did it even after her death.

SUPERMODEL THOMASINA WENTE DEAD AT 27

Laura realized she hadn’t known how old the model was, as that wasn’t generally a subject for discussion. The window of opportunity when one should be modeling, between eighteen and twenty-five, was too short. Either a woman was too young and a target for MAAB, or she was too old and a target for indifference. Thus, they lied. All of them. And their agents lied. Because it took two years to build a girl into a full-on giraffe and then the agents wanted enough time to capitalize on it before she had babies or drank herself into an unfittable twenty-seven-and-a-half-inch waist.

If the front page was any indication, she knew more than the reporters did. Sartorial Sandwich, along with her and Ruby’s names, appeared at the bottom of page one. Also, Thomasina was featured in her first outfit, a rayon suit that draped on her like cigarette smoke over a coat rack.

The story continued on page eleven, where she was hit full-on with her own face in stunning black and white. First runway show of her life and she couldn’t drag a mascara stick over her eyes in the morning? Is that the way things would run her whole life, seeing herself and being stunned at the dishrag eyes and hay-bale hair? And why didn’t they print Ruby, who always looked Photoshopped, even when she woke up hung over and cranky? Pretty news in the front, ugly news inside, she guessed. It took her another minute of shaking off her shock at seeing herself to get to the actual story.

“Ms. Wente was the founder of the White Rose Foundation, a rescue mission for young girls in Eastern Europe. She is survived by her brother, Rolf Wente, and sister, Hannah. Both live in Berlin.”

The article didn’t mention that she was one of the
ostalgie
heiresses, an old guard of East German wealth who had managed to get the mobs of protesters to protect them by saying that the new democracy would help them join the Wentes in the new meritocracy of the rich. Then, they played on the nostalgia of the prewar days and their part in the beauty of the East German countryside to keep protesters at bay. For that, they used the passion and anger of the skinheads, who wanted to return to some past permutation of Germany. Brilliantly played, if ethically questionable.

When Laura saw the picture of Rolf, she knew why his sister had been so ashamed that she’d led Laura to believe she had no family, and why the celebrity-sucking media had only mentioned Thomasina’s dead sister. Rolf Wente was a skinhead, and a mean-looking one at that. She hoped he stayed in Germany.

The Lancaster Glass building was a big pig on the waterfront that had captured the imaginations of developers, journalists, and activists. The building was twenty-two stories of fat red bricks and steel casement windows that were mostly broken, not because the neighborhood was “bad,” and not because the nearby residents didn’t care. On the contrary, the building sat on some of the most valuable real estate in the city. Back in the eighties, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Williamsburg was the arson center of the city, Lancaster Glass, which had owned the building since 1850-something, abandoned their factory/warehouse and moved their manufacturing operations to China. Nobody cared until the late nineties. Then, suddenly, everyone cared.

Floor-to-ceiling casement windows. Exposed brick. Breathtaking views of the city. Expansive floor space. A description of the building sounded like Realtor ad copy before the first busted window was replaced.

Developers discovered that there was a rub, naturally, because if it was easy, it would have been done already. The property had three lienholders, all of whom wanted to sell or develop immediately, and an heir, Katherine Lancaster, who didn’t. Katherine wanted to bring glassmaking back to Brooklyn. She was the only reason the building had not been converted into condos, though the activists who believed New York didn’t need one more luxury condo liked to think they had something to do with scuttling deal after deal. The developers, for their part, were patient. They just waited for Katherine to die. In the meantime, she collected nice checks by renting out the space for fashion shoots and movies.

Laura followed South Second to the water. The Lancaster Glass building stood in the middle of an empty waterfront like a big erection at the edge of the earth. Yellow signs with arrows that said, cryptically, LAMPPOST, directed her to the waterside entrance. The elevator operator had a clipboard. She knew him, so he let her in and clicked the doors behind her. Olly was a good guy with a crackerjack memory for faces. He loved operating elevators more than anything in the world, and even put on his uniform for his two-hour moonlighting gig in Williamsburg.