Designer Knockoff (8 page)
“You think just anybody could hold off a killer with a hair-spray blowtorch, sizzle him with a hot curling iron, and skewer him with styling shears? Ha. You’ve got an instinct for this stuff. So what does your instinct tell you about Esme?”
“Nothing. You know everything I know, Damon. You probably know more than I do.”
“You might have the inside track and not even be aware of it.”
“And why, pray tell, would I give you information?”
“Because you want to move into the big time.”
“And you can help me do that?”
So I can be considered a complete nutcase too.
So I can be considered a complete nutcase too.
“I can link to your stories. Lots of other sites link to me. Major linkage, premier placement. Maybe feature an interview with you, a live Webcast? Before you know it, you’re not just local anymore; you’re all over the Web. Lacey Smithsonian dot com.”
“Hold on. I hate to break it to you, Damon. Everyone thinks you and your DeadFed are stone crazy.”
“Yeah, and they check it every day, more than a million hits a month. How many hits does your column in
The Eye
get a month? I may not even need your stories. Maybe I’ll just watch what you do, see what happens, then connect the dots.”
The Eye
get a month? I may not even need your stories. Maybe I’ll just watch what you do, see what happens, then connect the dots.”
“Then you don’t actually need me.” Lacey studied the pretty little park of Farragut Square. It was early September, the leaves still a rich green, the flowers gold and scarlet. She should be enjoying its lush promise of a lovely autumn. She thought about asking Mac for time off. She deserved it. Maybe a long weekend up in Bucks County, north of Philly ...
Damon sensed he was losing her. “But Lacey, teamwork is crucial. The longer Esme Fairchild is gone, the less chance there is of finding her alive. The faster we find out why it happened, the sooner we find her and whoever did it. Was it politically motivated? Does she have enemies? Is it part of something bigger? Was she just unlucky?”
“Do you stop for air?” Lacey cut in. He reminded her of someone.
He took a breath. “Never. Esme’s a lowly worker in the hometown industry. Young, eager, enticing. One more victim for the Washington vortex.”
“She’s only missing. You’ve already concluded she’s dead.”
“Or kidnapped as a sex slave and shipped to the Middle East.”
“You believe everything you see on your own Web site, don’t you?”
“I present everything. I suppress nothing. It’s a forum for varied opinions.”
“Maybe Esme just walked away. People do that.”
Do they? Did Gloria Adams just walk away?
Do they? Did Gloria Adams just walk away?
Damon stared at her. She put her sunglasses on. “Even you don’t believe that.” He kept pace with her in silence all the way to the upscale joint that mostly served salads to young K Street lawyers.
Lacey and her new puppy, Damon, reached the front door, where Brooke was waiting.
That’s who he reminds me of,
Lacey thought. Ms. Barton, Esquire, looked pretty, cool, and casual in her khaki slacks and red linen jacket. Her long blond hair was French braided, and she glanced at Damon with interest.
That’s who he reminds me of,
Lacey thought. Ms. Barton, Esquire, looked pretty, cool, and casual in her khaki slacks and red linen jacket. Her long blond hair was French braided, and she glanced at Damon with interest.
Warning, disaster ahead!
But Lacey didn’t have a chance to steer him away before Brooke reached out her hand to Damon. “Hi, I’m Brooke Barton, and you are ... ?”
But Lacey didn’t have a chance to steer him away before Brooke reached out her hand to Damon. “Hi, I’m Brooke Barton, and you are ... ?”
His hand met hers. “Damon Newhouse. I run a little Web site. I’m a friend of Lacey’s.” Their eyes locked, and Lacey’s jaw dropped. Code Orange-level pheromone-jamming microwaves met fierce resistance and bounced back, retreating in defeat to the depths of the Pentagon subbasement from whence they came. Lacey watched them exchange exotic chemistry, imagining a mushroom cloud of heat and lunatic conspiracies. “I knew I should have ditched this puppy in the park,” she muttered to the air, as they were clearly paying no attention to her.
“Damon Newhouse?” Brooke stood rapt. “You’re DeadFed!”
“Didn’t I see you at Fort Marcy on July twentieth?” Damon finally blurted out.
“At the Vince Foster Assisted Suicide Tenth Anniversary Vigil?” Brooke’s voice betrayed an unusual breathiness. “You were in black, wearing shades.”
“You were wearing red, writing down license plate numbers,” he said. “The truth is out there.”
“DeadFed dot com? ‘A little Web site’? Good God!” Brooke said. “I check it first thing every morning. And the last thing at night.” Her eyes opened wide with delight. “This is destiny. And we’re all here to talk about Esme Fairchild’s disappearance.”
Lacey cut in. “No, we’re not.”
Brooke ignored her. “Damon, you are joining us for lunch, aren’t you?”
“I’d be delighted. Do you think we can rule out alien abduction?”
I’ll be jiggered
, Lacey thought.
I’ve just fixed up a blind date for Mulder and Scully. No, wait: Mulder and Mulderer. Against my will!
, Lacey thought.
I’ve just fixed up a blind date for Mulder and Scully. No, wait: Mulder and Mulderer. Against my will!
Brooke ushered them in and waved to the waiter for a table. She was a regular, so they were seated immediately. Brooke and Damon kept up a lovely game of conversational Ping-Pong, with a heady mix of pumping pheromones and dark talk of “evildoers.” Damon mentioned something about a “vortex of evil,” but he could have been talking about anything from the latest terrorist alert to the salad bar. They knew nothing about Esme Fairchild, so it was easy to theorize.
Unconstrained by the straitjacket of facts,
Lacey sighed to herself. They pressed Lacey for her nonexistent inside information.
Unconstrained by the straitjacket of facts,
Lacey sighed to herself. They pressed Lacey for her nonexistent inside information.
“All I can tell you is that Anthony Trujillo is the lead on this story. You should call him.”
The waiter bearing lunch forced them to take a break. True to form, Brooke slathered her Cobb salad in dressing. Brooke had a mania for salads and a serious addiction to salad dressing. Damon, a skinny carbohydrate loader, dug into a mountain of pasta, and Lacey had a steak, rare. She needed it to keep up her strength among her high-octane companions.
“She was only an intern, and only twenty-one. Unlikely that she had a heavy political background. Or motivation,” Damon said.
“Twenty-one is not too young to be in over your head in a real mess, especially here,” Lacey observed.
“Who was she sleeping with? That’s the real question,” Brooke said, attacking an artichoke with relish.
“If she had an affair with a married congressman, she’s probably already dead and partially buried in Rock Creek Park,” Damon offered. He twirled his linguini with his fork and spoon.
“We could go look. Together,” Brooke purred. “How’s your afternoon?”
Lacey communed with her filet and remembered the letters from Gloria Adams to Aunt Mimi. What would they tell her? Women went missing every day; they melted into the background or the soil, and they faded from memory. Lacey hated coincidence. She didn’t trust the curious juxtaposition of two missing women suddenly pressing in on her. She also thought of her aunt.
What would Mimi think? Or do?
In each case there was a Bentley connection, no matter how tenuous. Lacey didn’t know what it meant for her, but she was going to find out, if only for the light it might shed on Mimi. Lacey kept her musings to herself. Instead she said, “Maybe it’s not a conspiracy at all, and Esme was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Brooke and Damon took a break from their tête-à-tête and looked at Lacey.
What would Mimi think? Or do?
In each case there was a Bentley connection, no matter how tenuous. Lacey didn’t know what it meant for her, but she was going to find out, if only for the light it might shed on Mimi. Lacey kept her musings to herself. Instead she said, “Maybe it’s not a conspiracy at all, and Esme was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Brooke and Damon took a break from their tête-à-tête and looked at Lacey.
“Nah,” they said in unison, before resuming their conversation.
She decided to leave them in peace. Besides, she had to get back to
The Eye.
She tossed her money on the table. “You two crazy kids have fun. I’m due back on planet Earth.”
The Eye.
She tossed her money on the table. “You two crazy kids have fun. I’m due back on planet Earth.”
chapter 5
Like her thoughts, Lacey’s desk was a jumbled mess, with notes scattered everywhere and press releases tossed to the side. She stared at the pile of papers. She didn’t remember leaving it in such a state, but it was a possibility; she’d been in such a rush to get to lunch with the ever-urgent Brooke. Lacey glanced over at Felicity’s empty desk, with a nagging suspicion that the food editor had rummaged through her things. There was no overt reason, just the feeling that Felicity was still after her job. She shrugged it off, then made a note to lock anything important in her desk drawer every time she left it.
Lacey checked her voice mail and e-mail: nothing. She cleared a space and started calling likely sources all over again, finally scoring pay dirt: Tyler Stone was a housemate of Esme’s and she was at home, waiting for the missing woman’s parents. Tyler worked for Senator John Dashwood’s state office, while Esme worked for Dashwood in his capacity as chairman of the Appropriations Subcommittee. Tyler remembered seeing Lacey and told her she thought the vintage Bentley suit Was pretty radical.
“And you probably saw me; I was wearing the Ralph Lauren suit.”
“Of course, the gray one, black piping.” Lacey remembered. In her early twenties, Tyler was tall and thin. She had shoulder-length shiny dark hair and wore the ubiquitous tiny dark-framed glasses.
Another Prematurely Serious Hill staffer.
However, she had a wardrobe that came with old money. Very old money.
Another Prematurely Serious Hill staffer.
However, she had a wardrobe that came with old money. Very old money.
“When did you last see Esme?” Lacey asked.
“Monday morning, day before yesterday. This is definitely too close to home.”
Esme lived with three roommates in a townhouse on Capitol Hill. The other two were also there, but they declined to comment, except to say that Esme was a great girl and a great roommate and they were hopeful of her safe return.
Blah, blah, blah. You can tell all these women work for politicians.
Blah, blah, blah. You can tell all these women work for politicians.
“Could you tell me what she was like?” Lacey asked the more talkative Tyler.
Tyler repeated what Kenyon had told Lacey: Esme was consumed with her career plans. “We were friendly, but we didn’t hang out much.”
“What was her schedule like?”
“Like mine. Get home late, leave early. I mean, you can go days without seeing all your housemates. I guess that’s why no one really thought about it when we didn’t see Esme for a while. You just assume she’ll show up.”
“Do you still think she will?”
“Not now, with the police involved,” Tyler said on a dour note. “A D.C. cop talked with us last night, but we couldn’t really tell him anything.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“I guess, but it wasn’t like I ever met anyone. She’d just say she had a date after work and ask me to lend her something to wear.”
“Did she do that a lot? Borrow clothes, I mean.”
“At first. But after a while I started to say no. I mean, she wanted to wear things I hadn’t even worn yet, which seemed rather presumptuous. Because we weren’t really close friends. And, well, it’s not like I’m going to wear her clothes.”
“Why not? Didn’t she have nice clothes?” Lacey remembered that Esme was a little thinner than Tyler, and while she could apparently wear Tyler’s clothes, it probably didn’t work the other way around. Esme had certainly seemed well dressed when Lacey saw her, and she had a knack for accessories that made her stand out. That and the fact that she had somehow escaped the ubiquitous, ugly little black-framed glasses that so many under-thirty types on Capitol Hill seemed to be wearing these days.
“Sure, but, um, she didn’t really have that much,” Tyler said. “Off the record, okay?” Tyler seemed to want to talk, and Lacey agreed. “Esme wanted people to think she had more, you know, independent means, like the rest of us. It’s not as if you can live in Washington on a lowly staffer’s salary, not on Capitol Hill. And she was only an intern. Come on, her salary is like lunch money. Mine is like lunch money plus drinks.”
“And a line on the résumé?” Lacey prompted.
“Connections. The name of the game.”
“The name of the game for trust-fund babies on the Hill? No offense meant.”
“None taken. If the shoe fits, make mine Manolo Blahnik. Or Jimmy Choo.” Tyler’s family, she revealed, had a substantial mansion overlooking the Hudson River above Manhattan. Sharing a group home on the Hill in D.C. must have been a constant trial for a girl used to serious closet space.
“And Esme’s shoes?”
“Nordstrom’s Rack. Or some designer-knockoff discount place. I admit she had a good eye, but she had to work for it. That’s so boring.”
“Did you notice if anything was missing?”
“Nothing of hers. I looked in her room and found a couple of my things she borrowed. Things I’d lost track of. But I’m still missing a new Bentley suit in jade green. It’s not carried in the Washington store. The tags were still on it. I won’t say she took it, but I don’t know where else it could be.”
Is that a crime of fashion?
“So why did she want everyone to think she was a TFB?”
“So why did she want everyone to think she was a TFB?”
“You don’t know much about working on the Hill, do you?”
“That’s why I talk to people like you.”
People who know everything.
People who know everything.
“So people would
think
she’s connected,” Tyler continued. “So she could get that big job with the Bentleys. Big New York fashion houses don’t exactly take people off the streets with a degree from Old Hickory Junior College or whatever it was. Come to think of it, she never even told me where she went to school.”
think
she’s connected,” Tyler continued. “So she could get that big job with the Bentleys. Big New York fashion houses don’t exactly take people off the streets with a degree from Old Hickory Junior College or whatever it was. Come to think of it, she never even told me where she went to school.”
“But she was beautiful, not your average Jill.”
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