Killer Look

FORTY-THREE

By the time I reached the dressing area, it was so crowded I could barely see halfway across the room. The models who had finished their performances were sitting around-most of them just in underwear covered by a robe or kimono. Finishing touches were being put on the remaining crew.

“Do you know where Reed Savage is?” I asked one of the wranglers.

“No idea. He must be inside the show.”

I couldn’t see any part of Dendur, but from the sound of the music I guessed the clothing on the runway was an appeal to the women of India. I half expected a cobra to rise up out of one of the makeup cases on the floor.

I asked for the nearest ladies’ room. It was a pretty safe bet that Tiz Bolt would be dumping any drugs she had in her bag.

The guard directed me to the next gallery over in the American Art area, farther away from the Dendur wing.

Two young women were coming out of the bathroom-a long, institutional-looking restroom with eight or ten stalls. They had finished their work for the evening and both had removed their makeup.

Three of the stalls were occupied. Some of the models seemed to be changing clothes. I didn’t see Tiz’s feet, from the look of the pairs of shoes under the stall doors. I exited, believing I had chosen the wrong spot.

I went back into the dressing area and began a careful walk around its perimeter.

People looked tired and their nerves seemed shot. No one offered to move out of my way. Expensive gowns had been rehung, but just about everything else wound up on the floor.

There was no reason to push my way into Dendur. David and Lily, Reed and Hal, Wanda and her mother, and probably even George Kwan would be available as soon as the klieg lights were unplugged. Then I would be able to get the attention of Mike and Mercer.

Just as I circled back to the door that led to the Great Hall, I spotted something bright on top of a pile of black clothes. It was the shocking-pink-and-cobalt-blue blouse that Tiz Bolt had been wearing. She had taken it off and discarded it, along with her bell-bottomed silk lounging pants.

I leaned over and rustled through the pile, hoping that her bag was still there. But it was not.

I picked up the blouse, thinking its distinctive colors might have caught someone’s eye.

“Did you see the woman who was wearing this earlier?” I ran from table to table, asking models and stylists and hairdressers. All I got were blank stares.

What had I said to Tiz Bolt to make her break out of her big night and leave the Costume Institute? Was it about the cocaine? Or the clothes that Wanda was wearing?

I ran out the door, through the next several galleries-each longer than the one before-toward the Great Hall. The only person ahead of me was a man, his back to me, starting down the narrow corridor that led to the main entrance. He wasn’t in a tux, so I doubted he was either security or an important guest.

I was running in the same direction as he was walking, hoping to get to the guards at the door so I could describe Tiz Bolt to them, to ask them to hold her there till I could summon Mike or Mercer.

I stopped for a second to step out of my high heels, kicking them off to the side. It was impossible to sprint in them. I took Mrs. Stafford’s pearls and twisted them around so they fell down my back, instead of dangling in front of me as I ran.

The floor was slippery for my stocking feet, which I expected. I held my arms out to balance myself and sped up the pace. The man was tall, dressed in sneakers and a navy-blue parka, wearing a baseball cap. He didn’t look back at me as I gained on him.

It was only when I passed him that I glanced over to see his face. “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for security-”

But it wasn’t a man at all. It was Tiziana Bolt. She had shed her elegant clothes, crushed her spiky hair under the cap, and used her slender, androgynous body to fool anyone looking for a one-time model on her way out of the museum.

“You’ve got to stop, Tiz!” I yelled at her.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing to please you,” she said, breaking into a trot.

“Police!” I shouted, hoping to attract the attention of anyone in earshot.

Tiz grabbed at my wig and pulled it off my head in a single swipe. I caught hold of her sleeve and screamed even louder for the cops.

“Get your hands off me, Alex. You have no business touching me,” she said, swinging her bag at my face. “Let me go.”

I fell to my knees, sliding on the polished floor of the hallway, and clutching on to Tiz Bolt by the open pocket of her ski jacket.

“Let it go,” she said again, cracking me on the head with her bag.

I fell backward, still hanging on to her jacket, ripping the pocket as I went down on the floor. Both of us heard the sound of the fabric tearing as she broke away from me. I propped myself up on one knee, trying to get back on my feet.

Not only had I torn her pocket completely open, but as I clutched the worn fabric in an effort to restrain Tiz, the pocket and the paper inside it came off in my hand.

“Police!” I yelled one more time as the sound of someone running toward us got louder. “In the Great Hall!”

Tiz Bolt reached out for and swiped at the paper in my hand, but missed.

The expression on her face made it seem as though she wanted to crush my head with whatever was in her bag. She swung it wildly at me again. I had seen that kind of expression before, on people who meant to do me no good.

“Stop right there!” It was the voice of one of two men running toward us from the dark end of the corridor. “Hold up!”

Tiz Bolt had no intention of stopping or holding up. Her sneakers had a better grip on the museum floor than the dress shoes of the cops in tuxedos who heard me scream and had given chase.

I had the piece of paper she wanted in my hand, but Tiz Bolt turned to glance at me once more before she ran out of the museum. She pointed her finger at me like it was a gun and flashed a look my way. This time, it was a killer look.