Killer Look

FORTY-FOUR

One of the guards helped me to my feet.

“I’m a prosecutor, sir. Manhattan DA’s Office,” I said. “You’ve got to hold on to that woman until I get the homicide detective who’s inside the show at Dendur.”

The second officer was already through the front door, outside talking to other security men who must have been stationed on the front steps.

“What woman?” he asked me.

“The one-well, she’s dressed like a guy but she’s actually a woman-in the Red Sox cap and sneakers.”

“That tall guy who was on his way out when we got here?”

“That one,” I said. “The one who tried to smack me on the head.”

His partner came back over to us. “Sorry, ma’am. The guy took off. The guards said they didn’t hear you yelling because these doors are so thick. Did he steal anything?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“You want me to call this disturbance into the precinct? I can’t really leave my post here right now, but they could meet you and take a report.”

“No. I understand,” I said, wondering how and when we would get our hands on Tiziana Bolt. I didn’t know quite what to report. “But there’s a Manhattan North Homicide detective inside the fashion show, sort of posing as part of the Citadel crew for tonight. I don’t have a phone. I need you to call him for me.”

“You think I’m going to call inside that accumulated pantheon of who’s who in New York society and break up the party? I got no interest in being on the cover of Vogue,” the cop said. “Why don’t you let me see some ID?”

“Sure. It’s over there,” I said, pointing at my shoes, farther back down the hallway.

One of the guys was rolling his eyes at the other. “Don’t forget your wig, miss. You don’t look ready for prime time with that net on your head.”

I pulled off the net and found my shoes. “Here’s my ID, officer, but you’re just wasting time.”

“How about one of us goes into the room and presses flesh with the fashionistas?” he said. “Is it Chapman you want? I’ll dig him out for you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Tell him I’ll meet him in the staging area right behind Dendur, where all the models are changing.”

“Roger that, lady,” he said. “You okay? You look kind of shaky.”

“I’ll be good, thanks. Just a dust-up that I wasn’t expecting.”

I wanted to get back to that room and take off my pantyhose and trade someone for a pair of flat shoes. I’d even take overstock of the gold sandals before I’d dream of getting back in my heels.

“You need me,” the second cop said, “or should I wait here in case your buddy comes back?”

“Waiting here is a great idea,” I said. “Hold on to her if she shows back up. And if anyone else tries to leave before the show is over, hang on to them, too.”

“What’s the offense?”

I hesitated. I didn’t think I had a charge that could stick. “Chapman will tell you.”

I paused in the corridor to see what was so important about the paper that Tiz Bolt had stuffed into her coat pocket. I unfolded it and read it.

What she hadn’t wanted to me to get my hands on was an invoice with two boarding passes she had printed out earlier. Tiz Bolt and Reed Savitsky-not Savage, but with his birth name, Savitsky-were booked together on the six A.M. American Airlines flight from New York to London.