Triple Cross

After a shower, she ordered a room-service breakfast, sat at the desk, and wrote down the different angles she wanted to explore in the Duchaine case. Bree still had not received a return call from the attorney in North Carolina, and she made a note to try again before she left the hotel.

She also wanted to know what Wall Street analysts could tell her about the true financial health of Frances Duchaine’s companies, but she realized most analysts did not work weekends. Bree decided to go down that road first thing Monday morning. In the meantime, what about the people around Duchaine? People like Paula Watkins, the fashion designer’s close business associate, who Salazar said lured young, attractive people with dreams of model superstardom to New York. And the mysterious Katherine and Victor, who lured them with promises of rescue from disappointment and economic ruin—who were they? How had the fashion designer found them?

What were the traits of someone like Katherine or Victor? Bree wondered. She jotted down several that came to mind.

Cold, she wrote. Calculating. High emotional intelligence. Amoral. Narcissist.

A knock came at her door. Room service.

Bree waited as her breakfast was wheeled over to the desk, then ate an excellent cheese omelet with roasted peppers and onions on the side. She was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when her personal cell phone rang. She glanced at it, expecting Alex, only to see it was her boss, Elena Martin.

“Elena,” Bree said. “I was going to call. I made some headway yesterday.”

“Good,” Martin said. “I’ll let you make a little more. Frances Duchaine is hosting a black-tie fundraiser tonight at her estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. I’ve finagled you a ticket. I trust you have a gown with you?”

Bree laughed. “Uh, no, I was trying to travel light.”

“Then go get yourself one and rent a limousine to take you there,” Martin said. “Don’t scrimp. You need to fit in with the kind of people who will be there, and the client is paying all your expenses.”

“Okay. What do you expect me to do at this fundraiser?”

“Mingle. Talk a little. Listen a lot. Observe the women in her world.”

“I can do that,” Bree said.

“I know,” Martin said. “We’re sending you new identity documents by courier. They’ll be at the front desk of your hotel by noon. The event starts at seven thirty. You want to be there at seven forty-five.”

“With the main flow of arriving guests,” Bree said.

“When you’ll get less scrutiny,” her boss agreed. “Good luck. Keep me posted.”

Bree hung up and looked at her watch. It was nearly ten fifteen. She had fewer than ten hours to get a dress, get her hair done, and get to Greenwich before the crush of partygoers reached Duchaine’s estate.

Bree grabbed her purse and her phone, put on her shoes, went downstairs, and asked the doorman to hail her a cab.

“Destination, ma’am?”

“Frances Duchaine’s store on Fifth Avenue,” she said and was soon on her way.

It was raining lightly, which kept the crowds and traffic away. Ten minutes later, she was climbing out of the taxi in heavier rainfall.

Inside the store, Bree saw many more customers browsing than she had the day before. Maybe the lack of customers yesterday was a onetime thing?

But then Bree noticed that the flowers in the vase by the staircase looked a little droopy. So did the other flower arrangements positioned artfully throughout the store. Someone’s definitely cutting back, she thought, climbing past the second floor to the third and wishing she could find an analyst to talk to about Duchaine’s finances on a rainy Saturday morning in New York City.

Bree had taken no more than three steps onto the floor where the fashion designer displayed her wedding dresses, ball gowns, and big-ticket limited-run creations when she heard a squeal of delight.

“I knew you loved that dress with the brocade!” Marjorie cried, almost skipping to her side. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Bree smiled at the eager young woman. “You’re almost right. I have a sudden need for a gown immediately. As in tonight.”

Marjorie’s face fell. “Tonight? That’s going to be tough if alterations are needed.”

“Money is no object,” Bree said.

“Oh,” Marjorie said, grinning now. “Then we can make this happen.”

“Excellent,” Bree said and followed her to the rack where the gorgeous black ball gown with the exquisite brocade work on the bodice hung.

Marjorie pulled it off the rack and held it up against Bree. “So dramatic. I think it’ll fit, and if not, we’ll make it fit.”

“How much?”

“Fifty-five hundred,” Marjorie said.

Bree hesitated, then said, “That works.”

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Marjorie said, taking charge. “The fitting rooms are this way.”

Marjorie was standing in front of several mirrors and holding open the fitting-room door for her when Bree’s personal cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and saw Alex was trying to FaceTime her.