Chapter

  17

  Manhattan

  Bree Stone strolled up Fifth Avenue around four Friday afternoon, killing time. She’d spent the train ride up from Washington the evening before studying the contents of several more of the Frances Duchaine files.

  In them, she’d seen many references to possible quashing of a search-warrant request on Duchaine’s homes and offices; there was also a list of the times the fashion designer had been visited by police.

  One detective, Rosella Salazar, had paid at least three visits to Duchaine’s pied-à-terre in the Dakota, the famed apartment building on the Upper West Side. Bree wanted to know why and had called Salazar.

  Luckily, the detective answered, and luckier still, she had a cousin who had worked for DC Metro when Bree was the chief of detectives. Still, Salazar was a little hesitant to meet Bree when she found out she was now working as a private investigator.

  But when Bree told her she was looking into Frances Duchaine on behalf of a very wealthy client, the detective immediately agreed to see her. They arranged to meet at the Lombard Lamp on the southeast corner of Central Park around five.

  Six blocks south of the park, Bree realized she was approaching Duchaine’s flagship store. Since she was wearing her nicest blue suit with a cream-colored blouse and a fine red and gold silk scarf she’d bought in Paris, she decided to go in for a look.

  The store oozed elegance, Bree had to admit, with its black marble floors, gold walls, and black marble spiral staircases with polished bronze railings. There were three floors altogether. The ground level featured Duchaine-designed accessories: purses, jewelry, scarves, hats, gloves, and shoes. Bree noticed that there were fewer shoppers than she would have expected for a famous store like this.

  Many of the salesclerks, men and women wearing all white, were standing around chatting or looking at their phones. Bree walked by them without arousing their interest and climbed to the second floor, which was devoted to Duchaine’s ready-to-wear business and leisure fashions.

  There were a handful of shoppers browsing the aisles there, but no one seemed to be buying much. She had not seen a customer at a cash register yet.

  The third floor featured Duchaine’s evening wear, from daring black cocktail dresses to sequined ball gowns. There was no one there other than a pale, freckled clerk in her twenties who marched up to Bree, gave her a forced smile, and asked if she was on the correct floor.

  Bree got the subtext, smiled sweetly, and glanced at the girl’s name tag. “Marjorie, I’ve been invited to a dinner at the White House in a couple of months,” Bree said. “I’m looking for an appropriate gown to wear. If you don’t mind.”

  Marjorie seemed so shocked by this that she didn’t know what to do or say for a moment. Then she nodded and said, “Of course. What an honor for you, Ms.…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bree said, walking past her to a rack of gowns. She ignored the lower-priced items and went straight to the most elegant and ornate dresses, the ones that reeked of cash.

  Apparently realizing that she might be in for a decent commission, Marjorie bustled over and said, “There are three or four there that would look beautiful on you.”

  “You think?” Bree said, pausing at a black one that featured a plunging neckline and intricate brocade across the bodice.

  “That’s almost one of a kind,” Marjorie said. “Frances had only ten made.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think it will fit me.”

  “It might. But I can check the computer and see if we have a larger size somewhere.”

  Bree made a noncommittal noise and went to another dress, this one with an Indian influence. “Not many customers here today. I’m surprised,” she said.

  She glanced at the clerk, who pursed her lips. “Yes, well,” Marjorie said. “The economy’s a little off, and it is shoulder season.”

  Cocking her head, Bree said, “Shoulder season?”

  “Too late for winter, too early for summer. Give it a week or two and we’ll be slammed again.”

  That did not sound right to Bree. New York had more than enough wealthy women who traveled to different climates and could afford to shop at Duchaine even in an economic downturn.

  So what was going on?

  Bree glanced at her watch and realized she needed to head to Central Park. She turned away from the gowns to find Marjorie looking at her expectantly.

  “None you want to try on?”

  “Afraid not,” Bree said. “Nothing that screams White House, anyway. And now I must be going. I have a meeting at five.”

  The clerk’s face fell in a way that told Bree it had been a while since someone wandered in off the street looking to spend thousands on a gown. Marjorie stood aside, saying, “Where else are you looking, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I was thinking Chanel, Saint Laurent, and Tess Jackson if I have enough time before my flight back to Atlanta,” Bree said.

  “I hear that a lot,” the clerk said. “Everyone’s going back to Tess.”

  “That’s unfortunate for you, Marjorie,” Bree said and left.

  Chapter

  18

  As Bree hurried north, she kept thinking that the shine seemed to have gone off Frances Duchaine’s name; the brand was no longer attracting flocks of customers eager to open their purses or wallets for anything that had the famous FD logo on it.

  When had that happened? For years, all you heard about was the Duchaine brand getting bigger, broader, deeper.

  Bree crossed West Fifty-Ninth and started up the sidewalk along East Drive toward the Lombard Lamp, making a mental note to get in touch with some of the financial analysts that covered Duchaine’s companies.

  When Bree reached the meeting place, she noticed a short woman who appeared to be very pregnant leaning against the ornate lamp.

  “My cousin Pablo, he raves about you, Chief Stone,” she said, reaching out to shake Bree’s hand. “He says Metro PD is lost without you.”

  “Pablo has always flattered me, Detective Salazar.”

  Salazar laughed. “Call me Rosella, and yes, Pablo is an expert at flattery. Shall we walk?”

  “If you’re okay with it?”

  “The doctors tell me I need to,” Salazar said, pitching a plastic water bottle into a trash can. “I’ve got gestational diabetes and they said a little exercise every day will help lower my numbers.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Almost eight months,” the detective said, smiling. “It’s going to be a boy this time. I told the ob-gyn not to tell me if it was a boy or a girl, but I can feel it. A brother to my little Elaina. You got kids?”

  “Three stepchildren who I love to pieces.”

  “You’re married to Dr. Cross, right?”

  Bree nodded as they walked into the park. “Last time I looked.”

  “I heard him lecture when I took a class at Quantico a few years back.”

  “He’s a talker.”

  Salazar laughed. “He is. And it’s fascinating how his mind works.”

  “There’s no one like him,” Bree said. “So, tell me what you think about Duchaine.”

  Detective Salazar said, “You really don’t know who you’re working for, huh?”

  “All I was told was that the client has very deep pockets and wants us to follow the trail wherever it goes.”

  “To find out what?”

  “I don’t know,” Bree admitted. “I’m just supposed to listen to my instincts based on information I was given about Frances Duchaine.”

  “What kind of info?”

  Bree hesitated, then decided she needed an ally. “Some financials, some personal info, press clippings, and some information about a few run-ins with the law she’s squirmed out of, including a civil suit in North Carolina filed by three young wannabe models—two females, one male—that was dismissed and sealed.”

  “Of course it was,” Salazar said. “That has Frances Duchaine written all over it.”

  Over the next hour, they walked north through Central Park as Bree listened closely to the detective’s take on the fashion icon. Salazar said that she’d known of no complaints against Duchaine whatsoever until four years ago when a young woman who said her name was Molly contacted the vice squad, where Salazar was working at the time. Molly said she had been lured from North Carolina to New York by Duchaine’s representatives with promises that she would be considered for modeling jobs.

  “Molly had to pay her own way up here and get a place to live,” Salazar said. “Duchaine’s people provided her with a photographer for headshots, and they paid to put her in mockups for possible advertising campaigns. Molly’s life went well for a minute.”

  The detective said Molly was called in by Duchaine and another woman who worked for her, Paula Watkins. They told Molly that the market testing on her was lower than they’d expected and that she should get plastic surgery to fix some of her flaws so she could be considered for future campaigns.

  “This sounds somewhat similar to the allegations in the dismissed lawsuit,” Bree said. “Keep going. What were they recommending?”

  “Bigger boobs, porcelain veneers, a nose job,” Salazar said. “Molly told them that she could not afford any of that, and they offered her a company loan that they said she could pay back over time once the work was done.”

  “Let me guess. She takes the loan, has the surgeries and cosmetic enhancements with doctors and dentists they recommend, and they still don’t give her any work.”

  “Yes. And now she’s twenty-one and owes them like seventy grand.”

  Molly had asked Paula Watkins if the company could forgive the loan; Watkins said no. Molly found a few jobs, but she earned nowhere near enough to pay off the loan.

  Desperate, Molly feared becoming homeless and she wondered whether to return to her abusive family. One night, she went to her favorite bar around the corner from where she lived and started drinking.

  “A woman named Katherine, early forties, pretty, put together, slides onto the stool next to Molly,” Detective Salazar said. “Katherine’s outgoing, sharp, easy to talk to. She picks up on Molly’s sadness, gets her to open up. She buys Molly a few drinks, gives her a shoulder to cry on. And then Katherine tells Molly she might be able to help her make real money, certainly enough to pay off her debt in a couple of years.”

  “Katherine’s a madam,” Bree said.

  “More like a scout,” Salazar said.

  Two days later, with no luck on the job front, Molly called Katherine. They met at a coffee shop. Katherine told Molly there were many men and women who would pay well to sleep with her.

  Molly was horrified; she was about to leave until Katherine said that with her looks and figure, she’d get two thousand an hour and as much as ten thousand for an overnighter.

  “Lot of money,” Bree said. “Did she take the offer?”

  Salazar nodded. “Three years ago. Long story short, they used her. Katherine’s ‘friends’ took a serious cut of Molly’s fees, so she never made quite enough money to pay off the loan, which carried a ridiculous interest rate. When she got close to getting all the money she needed, one of Katherine’s friends, a guy Molly knew as Candy, introduced her to cocaine and then oxy.”

  “Get her hooked. Keep her working. Sounds like sexual slavery to me.”

  “It did and does to me too. Interestingly enough, Molly did not come to me with her story until she happened to see Katherine one day in a different part of the city. Got a guess who Katherine was with?”

  Chapter

  19

  Washington, DC

  I decided to call it a day around six o’clock Friday evening. Sampson, a recent widower, had already left to spend time with his young daughter, Willow.

  And I wanted to get home to see where my daughter Jannie’s head was the night before her big race and the decision about college. But before I left, the three paperbacks by Thomas Tull caught my attention. Each one was over five hundred pages.

  A lazy part of my brain tried to convince me that Suzanne Liu was what Sampson had said she was: an editor scorned who was out for payback.

  There’s nothing to it, I thought and almost walked out. But the obsessive-compulsive part of my personality wouldn’t let me. Shouldn’t you at least make sure?

  I scooped the books up, dropped them in a day pack, and headed for the exit. On the Uber ride home, I read the back cover and the preface to Electric.

  Set in metro Boston, Tull’s first book was about a series of electrocution deaths that police in separate jurisdictions had initially thought were unlinked accidents. The first three victims all worked at various high-end stores in and around the city.

  The fourth victim, Emily Maxwell, attracted Tull’s attention because he’d met her several times at the Harvard Book Store, where she worked. Tull was a sophomore at Harvard, but he had a background as an NCIS investigator, and aspects of the bookstore clerk’s “accidental” death had not made sense to him.

  He began to dig into the case and was soon convinced that Emily Maxwell and several others in the greater Boston area had been electrocuted on purpose. About the same time, Jane Hale, a young Boston police detective, also became suspicious about the electrocution deaths.

  Hale ultimately let Tull shadow her during the investigation, giving him an inside look at the probe that proved riveting, especially when suspicions turned toward an unlikely serial killer operating in the open.

  I had to admit, the back cover and the opening had me intrigued enough that I didn’t realize I was home until the Uber driver pulled over and told me.

  My phone rang as I shut the car door. Caller ID said Paladin Inc.

  “This is Cross,” I said.

  Ryan Malcomb said, “I just wanted you to know that your request came through with all the correct permissions. The data is being loaded onto our supercomputers.”

  “And then what? You start looking for the needle in the haystack?”

  “First thing in the morning. I like to write the codes after a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’re the expert.”

  “We will let you know,” Malcomb said and hung up.

  Inside, I found Ali engrossed by something on his laptop; he barely waved when I said hello.

  Nana Mama was almost done with a shrimp and pasta dish with basil and garlic, and it smelled fantastic. Jannie was setting the table.

  “How did practice go?” I asked.

  “Light jog and stretching,” Jannie said.

  My grandmother said, “She came in beaming with confidence.”

  Jannie smiled. “I’ll do my best, but I honestly have no expectations. Whatever happens, I’ll be fine. Whichever school I decide on, I’ll find a home there.”

  “Gotta like that attitude,” I said.

  Bringing the steaming bowls of food to the table, Nana Mama said, “It’s the best attitude I can imagine. What time does your race start?”

  “Around eleven, Nana.”

  “Oh, good. Damon called. He’s got a week free before finals and he’s coming up for the race. He’ll get to Howard around ten thirty.”

  I grinned. I hadn’t seen my oldest child in several months.

  “How’s he getting here all the way from Davidson?” Ali asked.

  Nana Mama started laughing. “Some college friend’s mother is turning fifty, and there’s a surprise birthday party in Chevy Chase tomorrow night, so the girl’s father is flying her home on the family jet.”

  “And Damon is hitching a ride?”

  “La-di-da,” my grandmother said and cackled. “I could never have imagined such a thing when I was his age.”

  We were all laughing as we sat down to eat. It was pretty remarkable to think about my twenty-year-old in a private jet.

  Ali said, “I’ve been looking at the girls you’ll be racing against, Jannie. There are some really fast—”

  “I don’t care who they are or how fast they are,” Jannie said, scooping pasta from the bowl onto her plate.

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” my daughter said firmly. “Coach says I’m not racing them.”

  Ali frowned. “Then who are you racing?”

  “Me,” she said. “My best.”

  “Oh,” my youngest child said, brightening. “I like that. You think you’re going to break your personal record?”

  “I think I’m going to run like I know I can and I’ll see what happens,” Jannie said.

  Ali was very goal-oriented for his age and I could tell her answer bothered him, but he sighed and said, “I hope you crush it.”

  “I know she will,” I said and winked at Jannie, who smiled back.

  The meal was delicious as usual, and hardly anyone spoke for several minutes. Then Nana Mama yawned and put her fork down. “Where did you say Bree went off to?”

  “New York,” I said.

  “What’s she doing there?” Ali asked.

  I shrugged and told him the truth. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Chapter

  20

  Manhattan

  “You want me to guess who Katherine was with?” Bree said to Detective Salazar, her eyebrows knitting. “I don’t know. Frances Duchaine?”

  “She’s too smart for that,” Salazar said, going to a park bench and taking a seat. “Sorry, my dogs are killing me.”

  “No problem,” Bree said, also taking a seat. “So who was it?”

  “Molly said she was sure it was Paula Watkins.”

  “Who works for Duchaine.”

  “Correct,” the detective said. “You don’t have to look at the story too long to figure out that it could all have been a setup, a bait and switch. They lure the young men and women in with promises of fame and fortune, get them in debt, then put them to work.”

  Bree thought about that. “Any idea how much Molly made in those three years?”