Designer Knockoff (44 page)
“Stella Lake. She’s pretty good. She made me pay the going rate, too.”
“Of course.” It made perfect sense. A hundred professional photographers there, all willing to watch her get killed for a photo, and Stella gets the only front-page picture?
“By the way, we’re wanted upstairs. Let’s go.”
The last time she was summoned to the sixth floor for a meeting, her stomach had been twisting in a ballet of flip-flops. But today she was too tired to care. She and Mac exited the elevator and turned into the plush executive suite and conference room, so different from the rest of the paper’s offices. A fresh pot of coffee and a tray of Krispy Kreme doughnuts were placed temptingly on a side table. Mac helped himself to a chocolate glazed and Lacey poured herself a cup of the aromatic brew. Full strength, not decaf.
Claudia Darnell walked in, looking well rested and relaxed in an aqua silk pantsuit. Her platinum locks brushed her shoulders. “I have mixed feelings about this, Lacey,” she said. “Great story, but I don’t like you putting yourself in danger. It’s a bad habit.”
“I completely agree,” Mac said.
“It won’t happen again.” They looked doubtful. Lacey shrugged her shoulders. “How could it?” she said. There was a knock at the door, and Agent Gary Braddock was ushered in. He handed Lacey a paper sack. She peeked inside and gasped.
“My shoes!” She looked them over: not even a scratch. “I thought I’d lost them forever.” She fell to her seat with relief. After all, they weren’t even paid for yet. And they were still beautiful. She felt herself tearing up and had to bite her lip. She’d imagined them adorning Hugh’s trophy room.
“Too beautiful to be swiped from an evidence locker. Scarpabellas, very nice. And well built, apparently. By the way, there will be no official statement, but it is my understanding that the White House is very grateful not to be involved in any ancient black-market scandal that might touch the Bentleys. The First Lady says thank-you.”
“She’s very welcome. But what did Chevalier say? He killed Esme, he must have, but why?”
Agent Braddock glanced at Claudia. She nodded, and he pulled up a chair and selected a doughnut. “There are going to be leaks in this story; that’s a given. So here’s leak number one: In light of your gallant yet extremely foolhardy role in all this, I’m going to tell you what I know off the record, and then I will deny it.” Aaron and the rest of the Bentleys, he said, were spinning the events at the gala as expertly as any Washington politician, painting Chevalier as a criminal mastermind. “They have released a statement of their gratitude to you for uncovering a killer in their midst, as well as a thief and a kidnapper. They deny any intent to harm you.”
“Bastards,” Lacey muttered, refilling her coffee. “I’d be floating in Esme’s swamp right now if they had their way.”
“Aaron Bentley explained to us that you were being escorted out, but it was just a misunderstanding. He was shocked to find you upstairs, which was off-limits to the press.” Braddock’s delivery was deadpan. “Once they realized that you were on the trail of the evil Chevalier, all was forgiven.”
“And the Bentleys get off scot-free. Again.”
“They’re rich and powerful. On the other hand, you’re pretty good with edged weapons. The sword cane, by the way, is called a ‘flick stick.’ Victorian. Collector’s item. Hugh wants it back, of course, but we’re keeping it for a while.”
“What’s Chevalier saying?”
“He’s implicating Aaron and several other designers in a string of robberies designed to get rid of old slow-moving stock, clean up on the insurance, and then rake in a little more money from fencing the stolen goods.” It sounded to Lacey like a lovely scam: Get paid twice for the same merchandise.
There had been no robbery scheduled for the D.C. store, and Chevalier hadn’t participated in any of the previous holdups. He’d been in charge of “subcontracting” them, Braddock said. But he thought this time he would enjoy leading one, dressing up as his favorite drag character, “Lady Chanel.” Chevalier, it seemed, had a checkered past. But things spun out of control, starting with Miguel Flores calling the police, and while his crew was scooping up jewelry and leather goods, Esme Fairchild walked into the store. She was there to collect her scarf.
She recognized Chevalier, even in drag. Esme was amused, not frightened, and Chevalier recruited her to help him get out of the store as the police were approaching. He told her it was all a publicity stunt. He quickly took off the Chanel suit and scarf and stashed them in an expensive leather bag, stolen from the store. He also slipped into a pair of men’s slacks and a turtleneck shirt to cover the old tracheotomy scar on his throat, and topped it off with a leather cap. They slipped through a side door into a hallway leading into the office building, and a security guard helped them leave because, after all, they looked like such normal people. Chevalier thought she was crazy, he told Braddock, but she seemed to be enjoying the whole thing, as if it were a big adventure.
Esme clearly thought there was something in this robbery that would benefit her, but she started getting too clever, asking questions, drawing conclusions, and Chevalier soon understood that Esme was learning too much about the boutique robbery scam. She was already getting on his nerves while they were driving away in her navy blue VW Cabriolet.
Chevalier felt he had to do something about her. She told him she was going to use her role in the getaway to get what she wanted from Aaron Bentley. She seemed to think she had recruited Chevalier to her cause by helping him slip out the back. She drove out onto some tree-lined road, opened her cell phone, and called Aaron. “Honey, I just saved your ass big-time,” she told him. But then she started demanding things. She said she knew all about the botched inside-job robbery. She wanted a big job in New York; she wanted Cordelia out. She wanted this; she wanted that. They talked for a while, then she handed the phone to Chevalier, saying that Aaron wanted to talk to him.
Chevalier said his boss was furious that he would dare stage a robbery at the same time the Bentleys were in town trying to win favors from Washington. Aaron started screaming at him and told him to take care of Esme. Chevalier, the jack-of-all-trades, didn’t know how, but Aaron insisted that he “do something to keep her quiet.” He ordered Chevalier to “take care of it permanently and not to bother him with the details.” After all, the whole situation was all Chevalier’s fault.
“Why didn’t the Bentleys just get rid of him?” Lacey asked.
“He says he’s got too much on them to be cut loose,” Braddock said.
Esme didn’t have the sense to be scared, according to Chevalier. They took her car to a country road in Maryland where he told her Aaron would meet them. He assured her that everything would be fine. He got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side to get his bag, which sat on the floor behind Esme. She kept chattering on about conquering New York City with the Bentleys and replacing Cordelia Westgate as their spokesmodel. In the meantime, Chevalier quietly opened the leather case and pulled out the scarf he had worn earlier. With one smooth, fast motion he slipped it around her neck and pulled tightly. He kept pulling until she stopped struggling. He called an old friend in D.C., a former associate in the armed robbery division of the Bentleys’ far-flung empire, and asked him to dump the body and get rid of the VW Cabriolet. He said he didn’t want to know what happened to them or where they went, so long as they were never found. Then he called a cab.
This was the same friend he later told to do something to make Lacey Smithsonian stop writing exposes about the Bentleys, but he neglected to make sure that his contact knew exactly who she was or what kind of car she drove. Nor had Chevalier stipulated what the friend should do to make Lacey stop writing. Apparently he was following Aaron Bentley’s “take care of it and don’t bother me with the details” model of criminal conspiracy. Braddock laughed, and took another doughnut. Braddock was having a good time leaking this story, Lacey thought.
No wonder criminals open up tohim
—
heappreciates a good story.
No wonder criminals open up tohim
—
heappreciates a good story.
After the minivan explosion, Chevalier realized too late that his friend was an idiot. An idiot who had dumped Esme Fairchild’s body in a little-known wildlife preserve in Virginia, less than ten miles from D.C. but in another world, far across the Potomac. Being a professional criminal and a lifelong D.C. resident, the idiot friend assumed no one ever went “way over there.” No one, of course, except every birdwatcher, deer and beaver enthusiast, and nature lover in Northern Virginia, many of whom had been in a position to observe Esme’s body the morning it floated to the surface of the shallow waters of Huntley Meadows. And Agent Braddock himself had presided over the idiot friend’s arrest less than two hours ago.
Tony Trujillo is right,
Lacey thought.
Most criminals are too stupid not to get caught. But that doesn’t explain the Bentleys.
Lacey thought.
Most criminals are too stupid not to get caught. But that doesn’t explain the Bentleys.
chapter 32
On Wednesday afternoon, a large bouquet of roses and orchids arrived at
The Eye
for Lacey. She immediately assumed they were from Vic, who had returned to Steamboat for the closing on his house. Lacey had driven him to Reagan National Airport. He left his Jeep in her care. “Don’t kiss any sources while I’m away. I want to be your main source,” he had whispered before he kissed her and headed toward his concourse.
The Eye
for Lacey. She immediately assumed they were from Vic, who had returned to Steamboat for the closing on his house. Lacey had driven him to Reagan National Airport. He left his Jeep in her care. “Don’t kiss any sources while I’m away. I want to be your main source,” he had whispered before he kissed her and headed toward his concourse.
She opened the note attached to the flowers.
With desperate apologies, Jeffrey.
Of course; Vic wasn’t a flowers guy. She called Jeffrey to thank him and he said—after casually mentioning that his mother had arranged his date to the gala with Tyler Stone—if there was anything in the world he could do, he would.
With desperate apologies, Jeffrey.
Of course; Vic wasn’t a flowers guy. She called Jeffrey to thank him and he said—after casually mentioning that his mother had arranged his date to the gala with Tyler Stone—if there was anything in the world he could do, he would.
“Anything?” she asked. There was something, but, Lacey warned him, it could be very hard on him and his family. She described Gloria’s last day, about how there was a trunk, and if it still existed there might be DNA evidence: a hair, a blood-stain. He said he would get back to her.
Jeffrey called her back the next week and invited Lacey to come up to the farmhouse he had inherited from his maternal grandmother, the repository of most of the Bentley family’s castoffs. It was located in a green and wealthy pocket of Connecticut. There were trunks in the attic, Jeffrey said, that had been there forever. If she wanted to, they could open them together.
“It’s a deal, but I can’t believe we will find anything dramatic,” she told him. “A hair is probably the most we could hope for.”
“You’re right, but we need to exhaust the last possibility.”
She was suddenly reluctant to drag Jeffrey into the Bentley mess.
He’s the only decent one in the whole family. Why try to ruin his life too?
“You don’t have to do this.”
He’s the only decent one in the whole family. Why try to ruin his life too?
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do, so I can sleep at night,” he said. “And so you can too.”
“You have been talking to O’Leary again, haven’t you?”
“He thinks it’s a good idea, to put all our minds at rest.”
“Jeff, it’s going to be like busting into Al Capone’s vaults. Nothing will be there.”
If they found nothing, they agreed to have a good laugh over dinner. “Bring your friend from the paper, if you like. And a camera. If Al Capone’s vaults are really empty, we’ll have a witness.”
Tony’s Mustang took a right at a small sign that said STONE-HAVEN FARM and rumbled down a perfectly manicured tree-lined lane. The “farm,” as Jeffrey had so quaintly called it, had a grandiose cobblestone circle drive in front of the imposing three-story stone-and-stucco home. The house was large and lovely and very old-money Connecticut. Lacey realized it had been used as the backdrop of some of the Bentley ad campaigns. She remembered one in which gentlemen rode up the circle drive on polo ponies while women in evening wear emerged from Jaguars.
Trujillo pulled the Mustang up into the covered entryway and parked. “Who knew that jockey shorts and T-shirts could buy all this?” he said, referring to the only Bentley items that he ever bought.
The door opened and Jeffrey greeted them. A large man with an Irish face full of freckles stood behind him, his sandy-red hair turning white. He smiled warmly.
“Mike O’Leary, Lacey Smithsonian,” Jeffrey said. “And Tony Trujillo, am I right?”
“Pleased to meet you.” She shook O’Leary’s giant mitt.
“So here is your beautiful swordswoman, Jeff,” the big man said. “I love a woman who can stand her ground and come right to the point.”
“I see your reputation precedes you,” Trujillo chipped in.
“And I love a man who ushers Mass in uniform,” Lacey said. “Good for the collection plate.”
“Well, not so often in uniform since I retired from the force,” O‘Leary said with a grin. “But I still make ’em give. She’s all right with me, Jeff. You sure you want to show her the chamber of horrors?”
Jeffrey just smiled. They followed him and O’Leary into a large center hallway that opened to an impressive stairway with a landing midway up to the second floor. The polished floor had wide planks partially covered with Oriental carpets and a runner up the stairway. To their right were the formal dining room with a stone fireplace, the breakfast room, the butler’s pantry, and the kitchen. A small bathroom was tucked underneath the staircase. To their left were a living room with a fireplace and a grand library leading out to a stone patio accessed through French doors. A vista of rolling green hills spread away beyond them.
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