Grave Apparel (16 page)
“No,
Vic,
but
I do think Mac could frighten small children.
He scares
me.”
“Darling, you scare
him,”
Vic
replied. “The toughguy act is to
cover
his
fear.”
“I’m with
Vic,
here, Lois
Lane,”
Trujillo
said. “But I bet his Little Leaguers play their little
butts
off
for
him.”
Lacey
heard a
faint
noise coming from her purse: Her cell
phone
was
ringing.
She
could
barely
hear
it
over
the
party
noise.
Cassandra’s
number
was
on the screen. She flipped it open and dragged
Vic
away
to a quieter corner at the end of a
hallway.
“Hello?”
“So
is
she
okay?”
The
voice
of
the
little
shepherd
came
through. “The
lady.
Is she dead?”
“No,
she’s
alive,”
Lacey
said. “The
ambulance
took her to the
hospital.”
“Cassandra,
right?
That’s
her
name,
right?
Is
she
gonna
live?”
“I think so. All because of you. But where are you?
Hey,
and
what’s
your name? Are you all right? Are you at home
now?”
“I’m good. I gotta
go.”
“Wait
a minute, you
haven’t
told me
anything.
I need some more
information.”
She felt
Vic’s
hand on her
shoulder.
“You
worry
too
much,”
the
boy
said.
Lacey
knew
the kid
wouldn’t
have
called if he
hadn’t
been
worried
too. Quite the little
Boy
Scout.
“We
need to talk. I need to
know—”
“She’s
alive.
That’s
okay then.
Bye.”
He hung up,
leaving
Lacey
to stare at the phone. She hit the
button
to redial and lis tened to it ring. But the little shepherd
was
cagier than that. He
didn’t
pick up.
Vic
looked
at
her,
his dark
brows
knit
over
inquisitive
green
eyes.
“Something you
want
to tell me, darling?”
Where
to
start?
“I guess in all the
excitement,
I
forgot
about the cell
phone.”
“The kid has
Wentworth’s
cell phone? Aha.
You
know
of
course the cops can trace it, if
they
get a judge to sign a
war
rant. And I recognized at least
two
or three judges at this
party.
Course,
they’d
have
to
know
about
the
cell
phone.”
She
gazed
up at him, her
eyes
large
and troubled.
“Now
don’t
look at me
like
that,
Lacey.
I’m on your
side.”
“But
Vic,
the cops think the kid is a suspect. I
can’t
believe
it.
He’s
just a little
boy.
Who tried to do a good deed. And he did! I
can’t
just sic the cops on him!”
Vic
leaned
against
the
wall
and
drew
her
to
him
in
an
em
brace. “Maybe. But did you think that maybe
even
a kid could be an accomplice in a crime that went wrong? Maybe
develop
an attack of conscience after it soured?”
“Yes,
but
not this kid. It
doesn’t
feel right. He
was
just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he
was
screwing
around in the
alley,
skipping out on the Christmas
play,
then
saw
some thing he
shouldn’t.
But
involved
in the attack?
No.”
Vic
hugged
her.
She
closed
her
eyes
and
breathed
in
the
warm
spicy
scent of him. “This is your call,
Lacey.
Much to my
chagrin,
your
instincts
are
usually
right
on
target,
when
it
comes to bad guys
anyway.
If you think the kid is really just a good Samaritan, maybe he
is.”
“So you
didn’t
hear the part about
Cassandra’s
missing cell phone?”
“What cell phone?”
Lacey
Smithsonian’s
F
A
S
H
I
O
N
B
I
T
E
S
The
Office
Holiday
Party:
Land
Mine—or
Booby
Trap?
Christmas.
It’s
the most wonderful time of the
year.
And the most stressful. Add the challenge of shining at the an nual office holiday
par
ty
,
standing out with style and as surance. Dressing for this hightension event can blur the fine line between Dress to Impress and Dress to
T
rans
gress. This highstakes highwire balancing act is not as easy as it sounds.
Remember
,
you’ve got to go back to
work
with
these
people
Monday
morning.
After
all,
this
is
Washington,
D.C.,
the
stuffy
bastion
of
sartorial conservatism
that just
happens
to house
the gov
ernment.
Wacky,
creative,
and
revealing
outfits
won’
t
win
you
brownie
points
or
gold
stars
here.
Unless
you’re
an intern
looking
to
trade
your
resume
for
a
torrid
tabloid
li
aison,
in
which
case
you
don’
t
need
fashion
advice
from
me.
Just
a
thong
in
your
heart.
The
Washington
office party
isn’
t
merely about free food and drink and
conviviality.
It’s
about offering the un wary opportunities for fashion fiascos.
Y
our
office gossips will dine on these delicacies for months, even years. Some typical pitfalls:
Y
ou
show up at the blacktie office fete in your blue jeans and corduroy jacket, and that one rumpled tie you always keep folded up in your jacket pocket just in case you have to “go formal.”
Y
our
CEO’
s
first question: “Uhoh, who let the reporter in?!” His sec ond question: “How do we get rid of him?”
That
lowcut
micromini
dress
that
shows
o
f
f
all
your assets,
right
down
to
the
bottom
line?
Hot
for
after hours
at
the
club.
Not
so
hot
for
prime
time
with your
coworkers.
Ice
cold,
if
you
want
that
coveted corner
office
on
K
Street.
Spare
the
top
of
the
office
food
chain
the
visual
inventory
of
your
tattoos
and
piercings.
Nothing
too
short,
too
tight,
too
see
through,
or
too
low
cut.
If
you
must
share,
do
it
among
friends.
Y
our
boss
may
say
he
or
she
is
your
friend.
She’
s
not.
She’
s
your
boss.
Quick
test:
Ask
a
friend
for
a
paycheck.
The invitation said “black tie optional.”
Y
ou
show up wearing “casual
Friday.”
Y
our
subconscious fashion
statement:
“I
don’t
get
paid
enough
to
dress
up!
What I wear has no bearing on how well I do my job. Besides, black tie is stuffy and oldfashioned. I
gotta
be
me,
dude!”
Your
boss’s
subconscious
hears:
“Y
ou
don’
t
care enough to wear your
ver
y best, so maybe you
don’
t
care enough to do your
ver
y best, in this
stuf
fy,
oldfashioned town. Be your
self
somewhere
else,
dude.”
And
you
haven’
t
gotten
a word in edgewise. Hint: In
Washington,
the word
“optional”
often
means
“mandatory.”
When
in
doubt, let your tux do the talking.
Dif
ferent
rules
for
different
folks.
Y
our
company’
s
Vice
President
of
Obscure
Facts
and
Irrelevant
Non
sense
wears
the
same
utterly
bizarre
of
fice
par
ty
out
fit
ever
y
year?
Smile!
It’s
probably
considered
a
charmingly
eccentric
company
tradition
by
now.
Y
ou
can
dish
about
it
the
next
day
with
your
real
friends.
Remember
,
when
you
get
to
be
the
Vice
President
of
Obscure
Facts,
you
can
wear
your
own
charmingly
eccentric
of
fice
par
ty
outfit.
As
long
as
it’s
not
too
shor
t,
too
tight,
too
seethrough,
or
too
low
cut.
