From THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS: Kate meets the Russian billionaire

Kate saw the anger shooting from his eyes along with the enormous fist that came up and shook in her face. She had no idea whether it was simply narcissistic rage or whether he had murder on his mind.  

   She recalled slugging a guy once—a police officer who had broken down her door and tried to rape her—sending him crashing to the sawdust floor in front of a cheering crowd at Hanratty’s Pub in Brooklyn.

   But tonight was different. She was standing in a room packed with fashion sophisticates at the Louvre Museum in Paris. And the threatening look on the face of Mr. Lupransky sent a message that her legendary courage under fire was about to be tested on the international stage.

   From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Cam hurrying toward them. At the same time, three men from their table stood up and started removing their dinner jackets.

  

    But before they could come to her rescue, Zora moved between the adversaries. She reached over and grabbed a bottle of champagne.  

   “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I have something to say.”

   With the ultimate in calm, Zora placed one hand firmly on the Russian’s mouth and with the other raised the bottle above his head and began pouring.

   The champagne trickled down Loopy’s black wavy hair, his ruggedly-scarred face, his shiny tux jacket and crisp, boiled shirt—until the poor bastard was drenched. He gasped in embarrassment while wiping the bubbly from his face with a handkerchief.

   “Merci,” Kate said, turning to Zora. “I admire the cool way you handled that crazy Russian.”

   “Crazy is right,” Zora shot back. “I wish someone had told me that before he became my husband.”

From THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS: The party was over--almost!

Finally, Kate glanced at her watch and gave Cam’s sleeve a tug. It was Saturday night after a long, hectic week and she was looking forward to relaxing in the luxury of his loft.

    They thanked Winston and Regina and had their coats on—when the door to the terrace banged open and a guest in a tuxedo appeared, drink in hand and swaying slightly.

    “Good God, Winston,” he shouted, “come quick and look at something.”

    Kate and Cam eyed each other. Along with Winston and the handful of remaining guests, they followed the man in the tux into the night chill.

    He led them down the terrace steps and across the veranda to the dome that surrounded the pool. The door was open and one by one they filed inside and into air filled with steam from the heating unit. The twin underwater lights at mid-pool cast an eerie glow. The guests all leaned over the side and stared down into the darkness at the deep end of the water.

    Kate wasn’t sure—“it’s a clump of something brownish” was all she could say. Cam thought it might be one of those huge inflatable toys. It was simply too dark.

    “Jesus,” Winston said, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses with his thumb before taking another look. “I hope it’s not what I think it is.”

    He sent Regina for a flashlight and hurried to the pool shed, appearing seconds later with a long-handled rake. Regina returned and held the light.

    Winston let the rake drop down into the pool and began poking at the thing. He felt the teeth hooking into something heavy. When he started pulling, it moved, a tremendous weight, but he inched it up until whatever it was rose all the way and with a gigantic splash broke the surface of the water. 

    The first shriek of horror came roaring from deep in the throat of Miles Harding. “Oh My God in Heaven,” the director’s words thundered. “It’s my precious Toni.”  

    Miles dropped to his knees and cupped his hands around the dangling head. Winston and Cam reached down and pulled the remainder of the dripping body from the water and lowered it to the concrete.  

    By now everyone was gagging and shouting and covering their mouths to keep from throwing up.

    Bawling his eyes out, Miles wrapped his arms around the soaking lump of humanity, drawing the head closer until his eyes matched the whites of Toni’s. In the glare of the flashlight it was impossible for anyone to miss two grisly details.

    The lips on which Miles exchanged his farewell kiss were attached to a head that faced backwards. The rest of Toni Treadwell’s naked body was encased in a shroud of soaking wet burlap.

    

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From THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS—Supermodel Zora makes Kate an offer

“Having fun?’ Zora asked.

  

 “I feel like someone who’s left the ministry and joined the circus,” Kate said. “But thanks for asking.”

   

Zora studied Kate for a moment. “Hey, I like your spunk, Kate. How’d you like to appear on my show as a fellow fashionista—but one with a fresh eye?”

   

Kate hesitated. Fashionista? She’d been a fashion writer for all of one day. But she knew that when she was wired on a subject, her mouth had no trouble sounding off, and she was beginning to feel wired on the subject of fashion.

   

She turned to Zora. “Awesome—I’d love it. Maybe when I get back to New York we can agree on a date. I’ll have to check my schedule and clear it with my editor.”

   

Zora grinned—fiendishly. “How about tomorrow at ten,” she said. “We’re doing a remote from one of the Canal-Plus studios. Cam will know which one. And wear that cute little number that’s lighting you up so brightly.”

   

“Jesus, Zora—show some mercy.  I just arrived in this crazy business. Your loyal fan base will think I’m from the Ice Age.”

  

 “Just stop worrying and be there, Kate.”

  

The two women exchanged smiles. When it came to making decisions neither liked beating around the bush. They were both professionals.

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From THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS--Kate gets Fashion Lesson Number One

“The trick is to treat fashion seriously,” the photographer  said, “even though you’re laughing your ass off as you write. And pay attention to what Coco Chanel believed.”
   
Kate looked at him.
   
“Coco believed ‘simplicity is elegance’—and they’ve become the two most important words in real fashion. Everything she created was simple and elegant. The Chanel Suit. The perfume. The incredible accessories.” Cam paused. “Did you know she created the Little Black Dress?”
   
The Little Black Dress?  Amazing—how this strange new guy in Kate’s life was so quick to expose her one fashion secret.  “I have a whole closet full of LBDs,” she was forced to admit. “And please, Cam, don’t make me confess how many times they’ve saved my insecure butt.”
   
He looked at her in a strange way before saying, “Did you know Coco had many lovers but was in love with only one man?”
   
“So?”   
   
“Just thought you might be interested.” 
   
“Are you trying to say something about yourself, Mr. Crater?”
   
“That’s entirely up to you, Miss Conway.”  He said it with a degree of smug satisfaction just as the stewardess appeared with their trays.

From THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS--What Conway Family Loyalty is all about

Kate was hoping her father would get off her back and get down to the business of cluing her in. Not that she was disrespectful. The truth was the NYPD occupied a special place in her heart almost from the moment the sleeve of her father’s blue serge uniform first rubbed against his infant daughter’s puffy pink cheek.

    It wasn’t just Paul Conway. It was Paul and his brother and their brother-in law who formed the Conway detective family and Kate was fully aware of how they stuck together as a clan. Duty. Loyalty. Family pride.  It was all she knew growing up.

    Kate officially won her admission to the clan on a certain lazy spring afternoon. A freshman scholarship student at Hunter College, she spent evenings running a check-out line at D’Agostino’s while waiting for the bartending job at Hanratty’s to open up.  

    Coming down the staircase between classes, she heard the sirens. She stole a look through the second floor window. Police cruisers and a crowd were forming just three blocks north on Lexington.  A cell phone rang saying it was a bank holdup.

    And that was when she knew—knew as certain as the sun rising over Jamaica Bay—that her father was involved and in danger.

    She raced down the stairs and up the three blocks to the scene. Sure enough, Paul Conway was lying unconscious against the curb, medics feeding him oxygen while holding compresses against his blood-spattered open shirt. Two bodies were lying behind him under white sheets.

    Kate forced her way through the crowd and kneeled beside him. Then she conned her way into the ambulance and held his hand on the way to Lennox Hill.

    The surgeons removed the bullet from his stomach but left the other still lodged in his right lung. Removing it was too risky.

    “Think of it as a good luck charm,” the chief surgeon said.

    After surgery, when they pushed the gurney through the throng of reporters in the hallway outside intensive care—there was Kate! Her face was the first thing Paul saw when he opened his eyes.

    “Those big green Conway eyes raining tears but smiling like Mother Mary, it was the most welcoming sight in all my life,” he had intoned at the Conway dinner table at least a thousand times.

    Conway family loyalty—Kate had been born with it, embraced it, and lived with it all her life. And despite the style and put-on airs of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper office and a career that didn’t permit fawning worship of any kind, it made her proud being a New Yorker who was the daughter of a cop.

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS--how Kate and the photographer meet

Kate dropped her suitcase at the curbside check-in and fumbled her way through security. With her dazzling mane of red hair flying in ten directions, she made the mad dash for the gate. It was just about to close when she arrived out of breath.

 
When she stepped into the cabin only one seat was left in First Class. The serious pair of lips belonging to the grey-blond man in the adjoining seat broke into a grin as he rose to help, but she had already thrown the bag into the overhead bin.

 
The stewardess slammed the lid shut, and Kate squeezed down beside him, returning the grin and taking his outstretched hand. With the other hand she slipped the laptop under the seat.

   
“Monsieur le Photographe, I presume.” She hoped her French didn’t sound too ridiculous.

   
“I’m glad you made it on time, m’amselle,” he replied. “I’ve heard you are quite a swimmer. If we happen to go down, I expect you to save my life, marry me, and promise we’ll live happily ever after.”

  
 Give the guy credit—he certainly knew how to pour it on when it came to introductions.  

 
“Applications for my services are now being accepted,” Kate said, trying to match his absolutely straight face. “It would help if you had a nice ham and cheese sandwich to accompany yours. Otherwise, you don’t stand a chance.”

 
He chuckled. “Speaking as a fellow extortionist, I have a more sophisticated scheme in mind. Let me know when you’re prepared to listen.”