Runaway Model (21 page)

"How can they convict him? It were self-defense, innit? Plain and simple?"

"If he had stood trial while the evidence was still fresh, maybe he could have proved that. Now? Six years later? He stabbed a man twenty-seven times, left behind a bleeding corpse, and fled to a foreign country. Evidence of guilt."

Kyle couldn't argue. He wasn't an expert on international law. He had no idea if Chance's analysis was right. But it sounded right.

Michel was lost.

"Life in prison," Chance was saying. "Twenty years at least."

Death would be more kind.

"This looks like shit on my resumé, man, I don't mind saying. I signed Michel myself. I thought he had a sweetness about him. Jesus. Talk about looks are deceiving."

Chance was worried about his fucking career while Michel was staring down life in a cage.

"Michel is my friend," Kyle said. "Sometimes I think he's my only friend."

Chance finally had the decency to shut up.

Kyle thought his heart had broken when he was cast out from the Stoney Rockland fandom.

Now he knew what heartbreak really was.

***

H
ow brief his summer of glamour had been in the end.

Even though Kyle couldn't accept jobs outside the United States, Chance booked more work for him than ever.

The clients who asked for Michel were delighted to be offered Kyle. And the clients who'd already used him talked about the new depth they saw in his face. His curvy lips still seemed to quirk upward in a secret smile. But his eyes held shadow. The complexity of the emotions you could read into his face were an endless gift to a photographer.

Teen girls with no real interest in the clothes on his back shared his pictures on Pinterest and Tumblr. A couple of influential music video directors sat up and took notice. Kyle spent a day filming a video where he starred opposite a button-eyed koala bear. In another one, he played the part of a mostly-naked boy being alternately drooled on and rejected by the world-weary girl singer.

"Work on the voice," Chance said. "Then we'll be able to get you speaking parts."

Kyle thought of warning Stoney that Nigel might be after him. Of course he did. But he didn't have his number. Maybe Chance did. "Who called you to set up the meet with Stoney?"

"A Marshall Daniels." Stoney's head of security.

"Can I have that number, mate?"

"Don't put me in a situation, Kyle. Don't be that stalker guy. One psycho-bitch is enough for any agency."

"I'm not going to try to talk to Stoney, mate. We've said all we have to say to each other. But there's something his security might need to know."

"I'm afraid to ask what that is."

"Then I won't have to make up a pretty lie to keep from telling you."

***

"M
arshall Daniels speaking."

"It's Kyle Marchane."

"I know who it is, Kyle."

"OK, um, look. There's something you need to know. That stalker who was after me. I'm worried he's after Stoney now."

"Are you threatening us? Is that a threat?"

"No, mate. You know me. But he's here. He's here in New York. I saw him, mate."

"Everybody on my team has seen the flyers with his picture from the surveillance video in Des Moines. They know he's at the top of the list of bad guys to watch out for."

"OK. Cool, mate. Then there's nothing to worry about."

"Don't hang up, Kyle. Listen to me for a minute. They've got your picture too. You are not coming to this concert."

"I know, mate. Trust me. I know."

E
arly December. Backstage at a fashion show for some high-end department store's invitation-only Christmas brunch. Kyle would forever after block on the name of the place where he first got the call.

His mobile played a snippet of Stoney Rockland's "Fuschia Tree." He really should think about changing that ringtone sometime.

The makeup artist was using the big brush to dust Kyle's cheeks with the faintest hint of sparkly powder.

The mobile stopped, then started singing again from its place in the pocket of his Saint Laurent biker jacket. For five thousand dollars, the biker in question was probably more neurosurgeon reliving his youth than Dennis Hopper smuggling coke. Kyle didn't steal it. It was a gift from an admirer.

An admirer Kyle should probably be nice to. But, for whatever reason, he hadn't been much interested in his admirers lately.

Anyway, he couldn't reach the damn mobile, and the caller evidently wasn't content to leave a voicemail.

"Can you see who that is, mate?"

The stylist aimed the tourmaline ionic dryer at his hair to make it look a tad more wind-swept. Boyish and windswept was a look they often used for Kyle.

An intern stepped close to wave the mobile's lens in his face. The phone accepted the scan, agreed it was Kyle, and came unlocked.

"Marshall Daniels." The intern read the caller's name off the mobile. America. Kyle never ceased to be amazed. This kid had actually gone to university to get this job. And they didn't even pay her.

"I'll take that," Kyle said, putting out his hand.

"Oh no you won't, sugar. That's your cue." The dresser pushed him in the small of the back in the direction of the runway.

Most of the people here today came for the women's fashions—the leggy supermodels pushing skimpy lingerie. Kyle was just the filler. The token nod to the fact that men got Christmas presents too.

Nobody would notice if he wasn't there.
But I would notice. I'm a professional, innit?

The lights were hot and bright. Too hot to fit a Christmas scene. But Kyle hit all his marks in time to the music, turning here and there to give the crowd a look at his suit from every angle.

If anybody was looking at his suit.

If all eyes weren't fixed to the grapefruits of Irika's ivory ass thrusting out of a wisp of blueberry-colored lace.

What did Marshall Daniels want? Stoney's Madison Square Garden appearance was in two nights. Was it remotely possible that Stoney had a change of heart? Was Kyle getting a backstage pass after all?

Did he even still want it?

His final runway stroll took scant minutes. They felt like hours to Kyle. All models—not just Kyle the Klepto but even pop stars worth millions of dollars—had a terrible reputation for stealing the clothes they modeled. Two dressers were all over him to peel him like a package.

Finally, wearing only a fluffy white robe, he picked up his mobile.

"Hello, Kyle." Marshall's voice didn't sound all that friendly.

"Hey, mate. You called me."

"Have you seen Stoney?"

"No. Of course not. What's going on?"

"He slips away from security sometimes. You know that."

Kyle did know. "He didn't slip away to meet me. Try some of the underground card rooms. There's enough of them in Manhattan, if you've a taste for gambling."

"We've tried all his usual haunts. Kyle, if you know anything about this, tell me now. It's forty-eight hours until soundcheck."

"You know what, mate? Stoney Rockland is a big boy. If he stayed out overnight, then maybe that's not any of your fucking business."

"He's been gone for two days now. Maybe three. Nobody's sure exactly when he vanished."

Kyle said nothing.

"You still there?"

At the end of the day, Kyle didn't really know Stoney all that well. "I don't know what you want from me, mate."

"There's a lot of money riding on Stoney's final concert. We need to make sure he's all right."

"I still don't know what any of that has to do with me." But Kyle was starting to get a sick feeling about it. Yes, the rock star was a hard-drinking, hard-gambling man who was known to get it on with a stranger from time to time. But was it entirely impossible that his disappearance had something to do with Roman Nigel?

"If Stoney gets in touch with you. For some reason. For any reason..."

"He won't, mate. But I'll ring you straightaway. Listen—"

"I'm listening."

"Did you look into that information I gave you? About Roman Nigel? I told you before. He's here in New York. I saw him with me own eyes. My own eyes. We talked for several minutes on the street. It wasn't like I could have been mistaken about it."

"We've been looking into your allegations about Mr. Nigel."

"And?"

"He's disappeared too."

Two hours later. Kyle had finished a short run in Central Park. It was a cool December day. Cool and sunny. Perfect for running. But Kyle couldn't run away from his thoughts.

December. New York. Stalkers.
A man couldn't help remembering his history, innit?
John Lennon was shot just steps away from where Kyle was walking now. John Lennon, who fought so hard for the right to live in America, only to be gunned down in cold blood by a madman.

December days are short. The sun was already dropping behind the skyscrapers to leave long purple shadows.

A snippet from "Fuschia Tree." Kyle pulled out his mobile.

"Have you heard anything, Marshall?"

"Is there something you need to tell me?"

"Like what, mate?"

"Do you have a relationship with a violent offender?"

Michel. He meant Michel. They'd kept the name out of the press so far. The trial wouldn't be for several months. Kyle couldn't even visit his friend, since he still didn't have a proper visa. Even if he crossed successfully into Québec, there was no guarantee he'd be able to cross back into New York. He'd be giving two different countries two different chances to deport him back to England.

"What are you saying?"

"Don't fucking fence with me, Kyle. You've been sleeping with a known killer. For years."

"I don't know where you get your information, mate."

"You never mind where I get my fucking information. I'm asking the questions here."

"You're not the real police."

"You're not a legal resident of these United States."

"The person you're concerned about is in prison. In Canada. But even if he were free, he wouldn't hurt Stoney. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He's innocent."

"I know he's in prison. But you're not. And neither one of you two impresses me as being all that fucking innocent."

"Are you asking me if I hurt Stoney? That's crazy, mate. You know I would never hurt Stoney."

"I'm starting to wonder if I know you at all. If I ever did. Tell me something."

Kyle waited.

"Did you take the drug yourself that time? Did you set up the whole scene to get Stoney's attention?"

"This fucking phone call is over. It's over."

The worst thing about smartphones is you couldn't slam down the receiver. Swiping a red button to end the call just wasn't the same.

Stoney had vanished.

And Kyle was suspected of taking him.

If anyone
had
taken him.

What Kyle told Daniels was right. Stoney was a big boy who liked to party. He was coming to the end of the biggest tour of his life. The party might have started early. Chances were, Stoney was in bed with somebody he knew his tour manager didn't approve of.

Stoney might have a hangover. Fuck, he usually did. But he was fine.

Kyle had real problems to worry about.

He tried to call Michel. There were certain times on certain days when he was allowed to call. But sometimes they'd tell him he couldn't talk to his friend.

Today was one of those days.

"What's wrong? Is Michel all right?"

"Michel is no longer allowed to receive calls from anyone except his attorney. That is all I am permitted to tell you."

"Why can't I talk to him? He hasn't been convicted of anything yet."

"I am not permitted to tell you anything else. I suggest you contact Torrance Tremblay."

Kyle did.

"Michel is now in an isolation unit. Evidently another prisoner tried to attack him."

"Is he all right?"

"He is physically OK. But the other man is in the intensive care unit."

"Fuck."

"I am sorry to tell you this, Kyle. Michel is an angry young man. Evidently he responded to the attack with a disproportionate show of force."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"He had a contraband weapon. You and I know he had it for protection. But in the eyes of the law..."

Kyle felt sick. How could Michel ever get free now?

The gears of the system were grinding him down to dust.

When Kyle walked out of some random café clutching a latte macchiato, Nigel emerged from the shadows to fall in step beside him.

The bastard should have had a career as a stage magician in Vegas. He could materialize out of nowhere with the best of them.

A perfect ending to a perfect afternoon.

"Why the fuck don't you leave me alone?" Kyle didn't bother to raise his voice. He was tired of being the wrong one. The crazy one. The one who imagined it all.

"Oh, you're going to want to talk to me now."

Nigel smiled. Stopped. Leaned back against a friendly post. Folded his arms across his chest.

Kyle took two more steps forward. Finished the coffee. Tossed it into the bin.

He wanted to walk away. Wanted to run.

If not for Marshall Daniels' call earlier, he
would
have run.

"Why's that, mate? Why do I want to talk to you?"

"You know why."

"Why don't you explain it to me like I'm stupid?"

"I've got something you want. Someone you want."

Stoney.

"Is he OK? What have you done to him?"

"He's resting comfortably in a secure location. I haven't touched a hair on his pretty little head. At least not yet."

"What location? Where? In New York?"

"You can't seriously expect me to tell you that."

It must be New York. Manhattan even. Nigel wouldn't risk leaving his captive alone too long. He was always so careful.

"Fuck, mate." Silly to appeal to reason when you were dealing with a psychopath. But Kyle had to try. "How does this end for you? Do you want to go to an American prison? They're right nasty places from the sound of it."