“New York City,” Edith said in a fake John Wayne–style American accent as she stared at Molly’s boiler suit, this one upgraded to a thick navy crepe from the mechanic’s poly she’d worn a month ago. Beale was stitched on the pocket in elegant script. “She looks like a janitor, no?” to Bibi in French.
“They love that shit,” Bibi pointed out. “They are obsessed with the proletariat. The men in New York look like dockworkers. Think about the jogging pant they’re wearing. Athleisure. So silly. Crass.”
Molly, who understood only “New York,” “le jogging,” and “athleisure,” pointed to a stretchy silk crop top she’d selected that had a kind of athletic appeal.
“Non non non non non!” Edith snapped. “Opposite.”
Molly held up an extremely small dress. Edith nodded. “Better,” she said. “Comfortable doesn’t look good.”
“Beauty is, how you say, full of pain,” Bibi insisted.
Molly nodded in reply, though she wasn’t entirely sure anymore that this was true.
Chapter Seventeen
Lou Lucas perched on the edge of a green metal chair in the Tuileries Gardens, yellow dust clinging to her platform Skechers, and watched the entrance of H?tel Le Narcisse through her birding binoculars. She wore huge plastic sunglasses, a cheap straw fedora from Canal Street, and a sweatshirt depicting a cartoon of a tabby cat sitting on the Golden Gate Bridge over tight bedazzled jeans, along with brown lipstick and chipped pink nail polish.
She had gone incognito.
Despite the hordes of photographers stalking the square kilometer around her, she hadn’t been—thus far—noticed by anyone at all, not even other tourists. She sipped from a venti Starbucks paper cup with “double caramel latte whip” written on the side, though it held plain black coffee without sugar or milk; her zip-top plastic tote bag, emblazoned with a rhinestone version of the Eiffel Tower, had “La Vie en Rose” written on it with purple glitter. Yes, she thought, fingering the tacky rhinestone rings she’d picked up at the airport, it’s as good as wearing an invisibility cloak.
The November issue would land on the doorsteps of their subscribers in ten days and on newsstands in two weeks; slightly late, but better late than never. Not a single person had seen the complete article, save for Margot, Paula, and Courtney Sacks in Legal, all of whom had seemed fully satisfied by Lou’s hard work.
Luckily, no one else seemed to care about November at all; they’d written it off completely after Callie died, and now the entire RAGE staff was far too caught up packing for their trip to Paris. All thirty of them would arrive here the following night, to see the shows and sights on Margot’s dime.
It won’t take long, she told herself, for everything to start falling into place. The November story really was the most salacious thing she’d ever read in her life. She could barely believe she’d written it. The words had come out practically in a dream. She’d never felt so empowered.
Lou pulled a vanilla-flavored Ensure out of her purse, inserted a straw, and consumed her lunch with the birding binoculars still pressed to her face. She watched hordes of socialites pour into the entrance of Le Narcisse. No, she thought, it wouldn’t be long now.
She drained the can with a loud throttling noise, threw it and the straw toward the nearest trash can, then felt the sudden lethargy of digestion take over. Eager to combat the unwelcome fatigue, she took out her hand cream and rubbed it vigorously into her papery skin. Her heartbeat increased and her lethargy disappeared. She put on her headphones, selected Wagner from her playlist, and let the music wash through her as she continued her stakeout.
Detective Mark Hutton, camped out in his office, rifled through the final set of boxes of New York State filings, all of them filled with tax ID numbers associated with Bedford Organics, LLC.
Bedford Organics’ annual tax returns had—as expected—listed the shareholders as a set of shell corporations. After filing a request for the returns of those companies, and then the companies that made up those companies, and the companies that made up those companies, Hutton was finally getting close to the center of the matryoshka doll, though now he faced almost a thousand corporations that had been somehow associated with Bedford Organics. He still marveled at the fact that Cardoso had run it as a legitimate entity; without Cat’s involvement, no one would have ever looked twice at what seemed to be a law-abiding, tax-paying small business. Vittoria had hidden in plain sight. He was hoping everyone else who’d owned shares in the LLC had done the same.
The biggest money, he reasoned, would have been the start-up capital. That’s what Hutton was really looking for.
He’d instructed the team of junior FBI agents tasked with aiding his document review to look for three things: One, a corporation that owned shares in multiple entities leading back to Bedford Organics, LLC. Two, an incorporation date that was similar to that of Bedford Organics. Three, a New York City address. He was certain the start-up money was local. It had to be, since the business had run only on word of mouth.
Only a few dozen corporations fit his requirements thus far. They had sixteen more boxes to go.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and got back to work.
As Bibi put the finishing touches on her eyeliner, Cat found herself feeling drowsy. She was stunned at how powerful the jet lag seemed to be on this trip. After getting out of the shower she’d been overwhelmed by a combination of euphoria, nausea, and adrenaline; balancing on the edge of the tub, she’d primed her airplane-dry skin with lotion and tried to pull herself together. But the longer she sat in this stuffy hotel room, with Bibi’s cigarette smoke and the scent of burning hair coming from Edith’s straightener, the sicker she felt.
Cat stood up and darted toward the terrace. “I just need some fresh air,” she yelled in French, throwing open the doors and lying down on the nearest patio lounger. She closed her eyes and let the sounds of Paris come up around her. Her head was swimming. The light was starting to take on the pink tinge of the city’s iodine-tinted streetlights as dusk fell on the streets around the Tuileries, and she blinked weakly, feeling as though the light were moving through her.
Bess stood up and walked out to Cat, who was practically passed out. “What do you need, Kit-Kat?” she asked sympathetically. “Have you eaten enough today?”
“I had toast and that pain aux raisins,” Cat replied.
“That was hours ago. I’m gonna order you something,” Bess said decisively, walking toward the Dalí lobster phone that had been placed on top of the piano. She punched in a zero.
“Hello,” she said in French, “I would like some steaks, rare please, with salad and bottles of fizzy water. Yes, as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“Maybe I need a cigarette,” Cat wondered aloud.
Bibi handed her a Gauloises Blonde, lighting it with a plastic Bic adorned with the phrase “Don’t Stop the Party.” She pulled up a chair.
“Edith and I have made a very good look for you tonight,” she announced in her broken English. “Ready?”