Killer Look

FORTY-ONE

I took the same path back to the roped-off entrance to the American Art area, and the same guard waved me in without a show of my Citadel ID.

The next three or four models were lined up. The clothing theme was still designs for the Middle Eastern Muslim women, and the music continued to throb with the Arabian movie theme.

I could see the pod of stylists working on young women-white- and black-skinned, but no Asians-who represented couture from the other side of the globe. Traditional Chinese gowns appeared to be hand painted, one with a tiger wrapping from around the back of the dress to the front. Its head was covered with crystal beads, which matched the beading of the frogs on the high-necked mandarin collar of the elegant dress.

Tiz Bolt and Mike Chapman were no longer in the room. I watched Reed Savage circle each of the tables, offering encouragement to the models who were primping for their turns.

Reed’s eyes swept the room as well. I don’t think he saw whomever he was looking for, but instead of returning to the Dendur wing, he crossed catty-corner, to an exit at the farthest end of the large gallery. The security guard there seemed to know who he was, opened the rope, and let him through.

I followed that route, staying a good distance behind so Reed didn’t see me, and flashed my Citadel card to the guard. I was able to pick up the sound of Reed’s footsteps as he walked ahead of me through the empty rooms in the American Art section of the museum.

The farther I got from Dendur, the darker the galleries became. They were unlighted and unguarded. All the security attention was, as expected, where the expensive clothing, priceless jewels, and fancy people were gathered.

The middle of the first floor, between American Art and the Great Hall, held the many rooms filled with medieval arms and armor. Even in the dark, I was comfortable in these halls, panels covered and cases packed with thousands of weapons from all over the world.

I had been dragged to this part of the museum on endless occasions-the reward to my two older brothers for indulging my mother’s wish for a day of culture. They used to argue the merits of English versus French armor till I was blue in the face-Henry II’s personal suit of armor when he was king of France versus those crafted in the Royal Workshops of England for Henry VIII.

Reed Savage’s footsteps stopped abruptly. I froze, too, somewhere between the wall-mounted Smith & Wesson revolvers decorated in silver by Tiffany, and the legendary Colts made in the 1870s and inlaid with eighteen-karat gold.

I heard voices ahead, and lighter footsteps than Reed’s evening shoes had sounded. I tiptoed through the revolver gallery and past the display cabinet of helmets, fifteenth-century ones found in a Venetian fortress on a Greek Island.

If things continued to go badly with Battaglia, I figured I could always be a docent in the Arms and Armor Collection, I knew it so well.

I stood in the dark, hidden from view by a full coat of handsome Japanese armor that was standing on display at the open door of the gallery, shielding me from the people in the Great Hall.

I was close enough to hear voices.

“Thanks for the introduction, Tiz. I’ve already met Detective Chapman several times,” Reed Savage said. “He’s been terrifically helpful about uncovering the fact of my father’s murder.”

“I hope you don’t mind that-” Mike said.

“That you’re here, Detective? It’s a great evening. Enjoy the champagne,” Reed said. “I’m glad you’re not taking the on-duty thing too seriously.”

“How’s it going with you and David Kingsley?” Mike asked.

“I see you’ve got one eye on me tonight while Detective Wallace is keeping tabs on George Kwan,” Reed said. “Now, if only Alexandra Cooper were here, I’d say it would be the perfect storm. She could be trying to wrangle my uncle Hal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tiz asked.

“Come with me for a minute,” Reed said to her. “I need to check one of the displays downstairs in the Costume Institute.”

But Tiz Bolt seemed to be standing her ground. “I met a woman named Alexandra Cooper last week,” she said. “What’s she got to do with you, Detective?”

“How do you know her?” Reed Savage asked.

“Well, I don’t really know her, but she was here on Friday-at least, there was a woman who came in here and said that was her name, asking me a million questions,” Tiz said, nervously fingering the edge of her collar.

“Did she tell you she was a prosecutor?” Reed asked, sounding as though he was going to snap her head off.

“What’s the difference? What does she have to do with tonight?”

“Nothing at all,” Mike said. “Sometimes I work with her.”

I didn’t know who had more of a right to be mad at Mike-Tiz Bolt or me. “I work with her” was the best he could do for a description of me?

“Take a walk with me, Tiz,” Reed Savage said. “Will you excuse us for a minute, Detective?”

Two sets of footsteps-Reed and Tiz-went in the opposite direction, farther away from my position. Mike Chapman paused for thirty seconds, then, as I peeked my head out from behind the Japanese warrior, walked away toward the Great Hall.

I was left alone to think, surrounded by a king’s ransom of knights in shining armor.