Killer Look (25 page)

I called Ty D'Auria, the owner of Citadel, a top-tier security firm built by a brilliant ex-detective who had cornered the business for the most important events in Manhattan at all the prime locations—specializing in events featuring art, antiques, jewels, and fashion.

Ty had promised to let Mike and Mercer in to pose as part of his staff tonight. I asked for the same privilege—I didn't want a ticket to sit on the edge of the runway—and the assurance that he wouldn't even tell them that I might be mingling with the ritzy crowd.

Done. I simply had to present my office ID at the basement service entrance and one of the guys from Citadel would walk me up to Dendur.

I never used much makeup, but I knew enough to put on a layer of instant bronzer to hide the pallor that the last month of my life had cast over my face. That suntan would fool anyone running into me. I put on rouge, dark eyeliner, and thick black mascara. I did a double-take in the mirror to make sure it was really
me, and I smiled back at the woman who appeared to look so trashy.

Mike texted me midafternoon: “Tied up. Nothing to report.”

That was an oxymoronic message. Too busy to call me, but no news?

Everything seemed to fuel my instability. I could feel myself spinning out of control but also felt helpless to stop it.

I put on a baseball cap and my ski jacket, lowered my head on my way past the doormen so the makeup didn't freak them out, and walked out of my building carrying a sail bag with my high heels and pantyhose.

Mrs. Stafford's co-op was ten blocks north and a few east of mine. There was a store along the way called Ricky's—part of a chain in the city—that carried every conceivable product related to skin, nails, and hair. I zigged and zagged on the avenues until I found the local branch.

“How may I help you?” the salesgirl asked.

“I'm looking for a wig.”

“Follow me. Could be your lucky day.”

“It hasn't felt like it until you said that.”

“Well, we've got a whole section in the back that's on sale. Half-price. All the leftover wigs and costumes from Halloween.”

“That's great,” I said. “I love a bargain.”

“Tell me what you're looking for. Color? Style?”

“I was hoping you'd have something sort of flapperish, if you know what I mean? Like the really good-looking sister on
Downton Abbey
,” I said.

“That was huge this year. All that upstairs and downstairs stuff. The show is so popular I can't imagine what people are going to do now that it's over,” she said, looking back at me. “You want a blond one? Like your own hair but shorter?”

“Black, actually. My dress is black.”

“You want the wavy look or a straight sort of bob?”

Once we reached the overstock area, the salesgirl reached into a huge cardboard box and came out with a handful of wigs.

“That one,” I said, pointing to a short black number. “My hair is naturally curly. I want to get away from that look for a night.”

“I can understand,” she said. “Ever done this before?”

“A wig? No, no. I haven't.”

“It's real quiet in here. If this is for tonight and you want me to help you get it on right, I'm happy to do that.”

“Very kind of you,” I said. “I accept.”

“So with tax, half price off, the wig is twenty-seven dollars. Is that okay?”

“Couldn't be better,” I said.

My adrenaline was pumping. After all these weeks of being the new, confused, and always-nervous Alex Cooper, I was going to escape into a totally different identity.

“I'll take off the tags and we can go over to the mirror against the wall,” the salesgirl said. “You okay if I sell you a tight net too? They're only a few bucks, and it will keep your own hair in place much better. Looks way more natural.”

We were both laughing as the twentysomething pulled all the wisps of my blond hair under the netting. I faced her and bent my head down, and after she fitted the wig in place I straightened up and turned back to the mirror.

“Awesome!” she said. “You're not the same woman I was talking to a few minutes ago. I bet you could fool your own mother.”

“That's thanks to you.”

“You just need a headband. I swear I'm not trying to pad your bill, ma'am, but if you look at the photograph on the plastic bag, you'll see that with this kind of wig—this 1920s look—you really need a headband with it.”

By the time I walked out of the store, I had a completely new air about me. The cubic zirconia band that fit across my forehead and under my bob was temporarily tucked in with my shoes and pantyhose.

I was about to cross the avenue and approach Mrs. Stafford's building. There was a fancy liquor store on the near corner, so I stopped in and bought a bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. The single malt, served neat, was her favorite drink.

The doorman was my first test. He didn't recognize me and seemed startled even after I gave my name.

The door was open and I walked in. Mrs. Stafford was in the library, catching the last of the afternoon sun in an armchair against the window.

“It can't be you, Alexandra!” she said. “What's happened to all those golden ringlets?”

I leaned down to embrace her warmly. “They're somewhere under here.”

“You know how I love drama, but I'm glad you warned me you were coming.”

We talked for half an hour, a bit about my recovery, but she had a keen sense of understanding, so mostly about Joan and her husband, and plans for Thanksgiving and the Christmas holidays.

“Do you mind if I get dressed now?” I asked, after a respectable period of time had passed.

“You'll find everything you need in the guest room,” she said. “Leave that awful canvas bag here with your ski jacket. You can always pass by here tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Not to worry. I'll drop all my things with my doorman on my way to the museum. All I need is my ID and cab fare home. He'll hang on to my key and my bag and my cell,” I said, making my way upstairs to the guest room.

I'd have the entire security staff looking over things. I wouldn't even have need of the phone.

I had spent many nights in the guest room when Joan and I were much younger. It was easy to make myself at home.

I put on the underpinnings and then stepped in to the drop-waisted, low-cut straight dress. It was an elegant black chiffon fabric with a black silk bodice. The Savage Couture label was intact, and a small black wolf's head—the ubiquitous logo—was worked into the lavish design of bugle beads that covered the garment, front and back.

The skirt was short and the strips of cloth that shaped it gave it what designers called the ‘car wash' effect—like the strips that smacked an automobile's surface to dry it as it passed through the machine.

I took a couple of twirls in front of the mirror. The dress was frisky and fun, and there was no sign of Alexandra Cooper anywhere in sight. It was a hell of a lot more chic—and easier to move around in—than the floor-length toga I had wasted my money on.

I went downstairs to the library, where Mrs. Stafford was engrossed in the day's
Wall Street Journal.

“What a hoot,” she said, standing up to turn me around. “I'd love to come with you, Alexandra. You're going to have a grand evening.”

“From your mouth, Mrs. Stafford.”

She walked over to her desk and picked up a large suede pouch. “My Joanie was right,” she said, dumping the contents of the bag into her hand. “You do need pearls with that number.”

“Don't be mad,” I said, holding my arms straight out and shaking my head. “I'd never go anywhere with a piece of your jewelry. You can't do that.”

“Be still, Alex. It's my travel jewelry. No one needs to know,”
she said. “They're fakes, but good-looking fakes. The real pearls are in the vault.”

“I don't trust you entirely on that,” I said. “I know how generous you are with all your things.”

“Well, you'll just have to trust me,” she said, walking over to me and doubling the long strand around my neck. “You look naked without them.”

I kissed her on both cheeks.

“I can't have you being naked in public, can I?” she said, taking her seat again.

“Then we'll have to toast to my coming out—as whoever this is.”

“Oh, just be Joan. Joan Stafford. Everyone will be confused, but it's just one evening.”

I had brought the bottle of scotch downstairs with me. “Still your favorite?” I asked, holding it up for her to see.

“Divine. Use those glasses on the shelf behind the desk.”

I opened the bottle and poured us each a healthy snort of Macallan. I carried her glass to her.

“Cheers, Mrs. Stafford,” I said. “You're the best.”

“Courage, Alexandra. That was always my father's toast,” she said. I knew that she was thinking of my current life circumstances, not about her father at all. “You must always have courage.”

The yellow cab dropped me on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-First Street, to the left of the grand staircase and directly in front of the ground-level service entrance I'd been directed to use.

It was 6:35. Some of the three hundred invited guests had already started making their way up the red-carpeted steps into the museum for the cocktail hour in the Costume Institute that preceded the Savage fashion show.

Security must have been in place long before the doors opened. Mike had texted me while I was dressing at Mrs. Stafford's, telling me that Citadel had supplied him and Mercer with rented tuxedos to take their places among the team.

I had replied, “Nothing to report either. Visiting a friend. Bored to tears.” Two could play this game as well as one.

I glanced around but no one else was headed in the same direction. I shivered as I stood outside the entrance and phoned the head of the security team.

The door was opened by an ex-cop in a tux, who tried to make the connection between the photo on my DA's ID and the look I
presented in person. I recognized him from the courthouse, but my name didn't mean anything to him.

“If you say so, Ms. Cooper,” he joked, handing me back my ID. “Just don't make off with any of the van Goghs, okay?”

“You've got a deal.”

“Want me to take you over to the Costume Institute?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I know my way.”

“Take this, though,” he said, handing me a laminated Citadel ID card. “I know you're not going to spoil that outfit by wearing it, but it gives you access to anyplace you want to go in the museum.”

“Thanks so much,” I said. “Mind if I borrow your shoulder?”

I leaned on the cop while I slipped off my high-heeled shoe and stuck the Citadel card and my ID under the sole of my foot, where the twenty-dollar bill I carried for the cab ride home was already resting comfortably.

“Good to go.” I said, giving him a grin as I took off.

The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself by showing up accompanied by a member of the security team.

The lower level of the museum was dead quiet. It had been cordoned off so that partygoers weren't free to roam through the vast galleries stocked with centuries of art treasures.

The route I had to take was circuitous. It led me up one of the large interior staircases to the Greek and Roman wing, where I tiptoed through the collection of priceless classical art. It felt almost illegal to be let loose alone there. The lighting was low and the corridors were practically dark.

I had seen the black-figured Grecian vases and grave reliefs scores of times, as I had marveled at the bronze Roman portrait busts that had survived so many sackings and so much pillaging through ancient times.

I took a right turn at the two huge wall paintings that had been
saved from villas on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. From there it was a straight shot through gallery after gallery to the Great Hall.

I could hear lots of noise as I got closer to the main entrance. Tchaikovsky was being piped into the large space, which was dotted with six-foot-high antique urns loaded with flowers. At the moment, there seemed to be more coat-checkers, waiters, and waitresses than there were fashionistas and invitees.

Security was tight.

Tiz had told me that every ticket had to be scanned before the invitees were allowed to enter. There was a black market for fake tickets with bar codes that looked good to the customer but wouldn't get the holder past the front door.

I'd read stories about samples from upscale lines being taken by thieves who'd somehow gotten in and literally could steal a collection before the models ever stepped on the runway. Jewels from Tiffany and Harry Winston and Van Cleef were on loan to make the shows sparkle, and they had a way of disappearing, too. In this setting, keeping trespassers from sneaking off into the rest of the museum was imperative.

I liked seeing security everywhere. It made me feel safe.

The stairs down to the Costume Institute were lined with waiters, each holding out a small silver tray. The choices seemed to be sparkling water and champagne. I still had a buzz on from the Macallan I'd sipped with Mrs. Stafford, so I descended without a drink.

The installation of
Savage Style
had been completed sometime after my drop-in on Friday afternoon. Tiziana Bolt had gotten the job done, with whomever Reed Savage had assigned to help her. All of the mannequins had been posed in a different attitude, and each one, I noticed as I passed through the rooms, was dressed in clothes of a particular period, in chronological order.

Every woman I passed was wearing something Savage as well.
It seemed to be perfunctory to acknowledge outfits that were well known from a collection. One woman gave me a nod, asking, “Twenty-twelve? Well done, young lady,” while another stopped me to say, “I've got that one in emerald green. Mine shows the beading much better.”

I entered the last gallery, a cul-de-sac in which everyone who preceded me was making a U-turn to get out.

My hand flew to my mouth for an instant. My first test of the evening was directly ahead of me. Tiz was wrapping a long silk scarf, trimmed with fringe, around the neck of a mannequin whose scoop-necked gown left too much of her bare.

Standing beside her, whispering in her ear, was Hal Savage himself.

Tiz was striking. She was wearing black silk lounging pants that accentuated her long legs, and over them a bright geometrically patterned top—it must have been a season when Wolf Savage did his best to knock off Pucci—that clung to her flat chest. Her spiked hair had been gelled to hold it in place, and she was tastefully made up to fit in with the anticipated guests of this high-end fashion scene.

Like all the other men, Hal wore a tux. I could see the ruby-eyed wolf-head cufflinks peeking out from the end of his sleeve as he lifted a champagne flute while he talked to Tiz.

As I approached them—ready to try out my disguise in hopes of overhearing something useful—I studied the framed magazine clippings on the wall that curved around the gallery. They featured the collections at the time they'd been on the market. Hal stopped speaking.

He turned to engage me. “I hope you're enjoying the exhibition, young lady.”

I was afraid to speak. So far, neither one of them showed a glimmer of recognition at my physical appearance. I had met Tiz
only once, but I had been in Hal's presence three times in the last week.

I nodded at him and smiled, turning my back to them both to read the magazine copy describing the 2015 show.

“I see you've got your favorite Savage style on, luv,” Tiz said. “Nice of you to be here.”

I was boxed into a corner with nothing to do but swivel and face them. She hadn't made me, I didn't think. She was just being polite.

“Brava,” I said, as softly as I could speak.

“Sorry?” Hal said, cupping his hand to his ear.

“She said, ‘brava,' luv. Now, let her enjoy the evening.”

I kept walking until I reached the exit. On my way up the stairs I grabbed a glass of champagne. The flutes were only half-full, so I threw it back and left the empty with a waiter standing on the top step.

I had passed the first test, restoring my confidence and propelling me forward to the larger stage.

Young museum workers in black sheaths were pointing the way in to the northern wing of the Met. They had clipboards with names and seat numbers for each of the guests. The most valuable real estate was always in the front row on each side of the runway, and on the far end of it, so nothing obstructed the view of the models or the clothing.

The crowd was thickening as it got closer to show time.

I spotted more than a dozen celebrities, dressed by the Savage Couture team, no doubt, flawlessly coiffed and styled. Ladies who appeared regularly in the
New York Social Diary
were scattered throughout the perfectly lighted room like so many totems of Wolf Savage, emblems of his enduring style.

Some of the security guards had earpieces and seemed to be receiving instructions about who to keep their eyes on. Others
were obviously on their own, scanning the growing crowd and moving among the visitors from time to time.

Once I had taken a few steps into the glass-walled gallery that offered breathtaking views into Central Park, I heard the recording that had been created for the occasion. Chalk up another few hundred thousand dollars for the cost, as I immediately added in the fee for the recognizable voice of the actor speaking the lines.

“Welcome to the Temple of Dendur—and to an exhilarating evening showcasing the brilliant designs of Wolf Savage.”

Usually, the exhibits and even the narrations of the large shows were spoken by an anonymous voice—the VOG, or Voice of God, as programs announced it. This time, it was unmistakably Morgan Freeman, inviting me to join him in the spectacular space.

“You have just entered the largest exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Freeman's disembodied voice explained. “This complete stone building, dismantled and removed from its endangered location within Egypt, was shipped here in more than six hundred crates, with an aggregate weight of eight hundred tons. It is surrounded by a reflecting pool, whose waters represent the Nile River.”

I stayed to the far right of the water—the wide moat that separated Dendur from the east side of the room.

“Egyptian temples represented, in their design and decoration, a variety of religious and mythological concepts,” Freeman went on. I listened as I walked the perimeter of the room, taking in all the faces, still wondering if there would be any frisson of dissension among the fractured branches of the Savage family.

“Above the temple entrance are images of the sun disk and outspread wings of Horus, the sky god. The two columns on the porch rise toward the sky like tall bundles of papyrus stalks, bound with lotus blossoms.”

I saw Calvin Klein, stopping to talk with two women who must once have been runway models, and thought it was very decent of him to show up to honor one of his competitors.

“We invite you to wander through the temple,” Freeman said in his seductive baritone, “and note that the man depicted in the traditional regalia of a pharaoh is none other than Caesar Augustus of Rome. As ruler of Egypt in 15 BC, Augustus had many temples erected in Egyptian style, honoring their deities.”

I turned, and at the actor's suggestion, crossed over the water on the stone walkway that led into the temple. I was stopped by a guard—well muscled and well dressed, with a discreet
C
for Citadel button pin on his lapel. “You can't come in right now,” he said. “The principals are lining up for the show.”

I retraced my steps and continued around the outside of the grand room. I knew there had to be a larger staging area because of the number of models appearing on the runway. Despite the great size of this wing, not even a third of them could have fit in between the ancient structure and the thoroughly modern guests.

Halfway around the room and headed to the door through which I'd entered, I could see the ramp that had been created to give the team an adjacent space in which to prep for the show. The museum signs mounted on the wall were arrows that pointed out, from the back of Dendur to the American Art wing and to Arms and Armor.

When Morgan Freeman completed his audio tour of the surroundings, the tape looped over and started again. “Welcome to the Temple of Dendur.”

I had a bird's-eye view of the runway—from the rear—as I stood against the window with my back to the park. The folding chairs were five rows deep.

Now that I had run into Hal Savage and Tiziana Bolt—
although I had no idea what they had been discussing—I was scouring the floor for others I knew. I was most anxious to get a fix on Mike and Mercer before either of them got a fix on me.

In the fifth row, about fifty feet away from me, were two dark-skinned women, one much older than the other. It took me a few seconds to focus on who they were—one of them looked familiar to me—and then it struck me.

The younger one was Wanda Beston, the housekeeper at the Silver Needle who had found the body of Wolf Savage. I remembered that he had been fond of her—respectfully so—and that he had invited her to bring her mother, who was a seamstress, to the show.

I started to work my way toward the two women, fighting the incoming flow of invitees who were being directed to take their seats. I got directly behind them before I leaned in and spoke.

“Ms. Beston,” I said, looking her outfit over from top to bottom, “there's something I need to ask you.”

She looked back at me questioningly. “Who are you?”

“I met you at the Silver Needle,” I said. “My name is Alex Cooper, and I'm the woman who was with the two detectives who were questioning you in Mr. Savage's suite.”

“You don't look at all familiar,” she said, putting a protective hand on her mother's arm.

“I'm—I'm undercover,” I said. “I can get my ID out for you.”

The announcer ordered everyone to sit down. I saw Anna Wintour walk in to take her seat in the center row, surrounded by two security guards, one of whom was Mercer Wallace.

She had no handbag or evening purse. Only the cell phone with which she would snap photographs of any garments that won her approval.

Wanda Beston and I were both nervous. “I was with that detective, see him? You talked about the Great Migration and how
slave uniforms were the first things mass-produced in the Garment District.”

That factoid confirmed my ID better than a photograph could have. She exhaled and said that she remembered.

“I'm so glad Wolf Savage kept his promise to have you here,” I said to her, in a whisper. “Is this your mother beside you?”

She held her forefinger up to her mouth to shush me as she said, “Yes. Let's talk later.”

“I'll find you,” I said. “I just need to know if the blouse you're wearing is your own.”