He was silent a moment, digesting this information.
"What kind of proof?"
"Video files. Gisella tapped her… exploits."
"And you currently have this camera in your possession?"
"I do," I said. Which wasn't a complete lie. I did have the camera. It just didn't contain squat. But the killer didn't know that. And, if my bluff worked, he would do whatever it took to make sure that file didn't get out.
"And you will release this evidence to me after the show?"
I nodded at the phone. "Absolutely. On one condition."
"Oui?" he said. Though I was ninety nine percent sure he'd do anything to get his hands on a story like this.
"I want you to go on the air now letting the public know that I have this evidence, it's secure in the safe in my hotel room, and that I'll be talking to you and making the evidence public immediately after the Le Croix show."
I could hear his frown through the phone. "Why?"
Because I had a plan to catch the killer red-handed trying to steal the camera. But I figured that was a little too direct. Instead I told him, "Those are my terms. Take it or leave it."
He paused for a moment. "Oui, I will do it."
I grinned. Then arranged to meet him in the hotel lobby after the show.
I slipped Gisella's camera out of my purse and opened the closet doors, exposing the little floor safe in the corner. I crouched down and opened it, sliding the camera inside before shutting it and securing the door with a click.
Phase one, complete.
Now, all I needed was a way to catch the thief in the act.
I made a quick stop in Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt's room (still empty – where the hell where those two?) before riding the elevator back down to the lobby. Luckily I caught Andre slash Pierre at the front desk.
"Good morning," I said doing an awkward one heel one boot hobble.
"Bon jour, Mademoiselle Springer," he responded. He glanced behind me. "Eh, no Rosenblatt?" he whispered.
I shook my head. "No. No Rosenblatt."
He visibly relaxed. "What can I do for you this fine morning then?"
"I wanted to ask if you have security cameras in the hotel?"
He nodded. "Oui, oui. Our guests' safety is of the utmost importance to us. Why do you ask, mademoiselle? You are worried about intruders?"
"Um, sort of. I was wondering…" I paused, unsure how much of my plan to share with him. "I was wondering if there is a camera in the hallway outside my room."
Pierre nodded. "All the hallways are monitored."
"I have a feeling…" I paused again.
"Oui? A feeling?"
"A feeling that someone may try to break into my room today. During the Le Croix show."
His eyebrows shot north. "You have received a threat?"
"Uh, well, no."
"A warning?"
"Not exactly."
He narrowed his eyes. "That Mademoiselle Rosenblatt and her mumbo-jumbo premonitions?"
"Um, no. I just… well, had a feeling."
"Hmm." He thought about that. "Okay, then. We should inform the police, oui?"
"No!"
Pierre jumped.
"Uh, I mean, no. No police. It's, uh, probably just a prank, right? No point in bringing the authorities in for nothing. I just wanted to make sure that should I report a theft later, there would be visual evidence of someone breaking into my room. Should they try to break in."
Pierre sucked in his cheeks, contemplating me. Finally he said, "I will make sure the security team has a camera on your door."
I grinned. "Thank you, Pierre!" I slapped a palm over my mouth. "I mean, Andres."
"Hmph," he said again.
I grabbed my crutches and hobbled across the marble floor (slowly this time, one embarrassing face plant per vacation was enough for me) toward the glass front doors, where the doorman hailed me a cab.
I slid in to the seat and gave the driver the address of Le Carrousel du Louvre, before pulling out my cell and dialing Dana's number. She picked up on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. Where are you?"
"I'm at the tent already. I had a six a.m. fitting. You?"
"I'm on my way there now. I'll see you in a few minutes. And, Dana?"
"Yeah?"
I couldn't help a grin. "We're catching a killer today."
Dana did a little squeal of excitement in my ear, before hanging up.
I settled back down into my seat, crossing my fingers I wouldn't live to regret this as a mix of anticipation, fear, and excitement churned in my stomach. No matter what else happen today, one thing was for sure.
The show must go on.
Chapter Eighteen
The ride to Le Carrousel du Louvre took longer than normal, as the streets were packed once we neared the Le Croix tent. I finally had the driver drop me off down the block and hopped along on my crutches to get through the milling crowds. At the entrance I was stopped by two security guards who looked like Popeye clones – both sporting crew cuts and forearms larger than most model's thighs. They went through my shoulder bag and did a cursory pat down before allowing me entry. Which, I honestly found a little ridiculous, considering both Gisella and Donata had been killed by shoes, not handguns or switchblades. Though, I'm pretty sure they knew if they laid a hand on the guests' footwear, there'd be mutiny.
Once I passed inspection, I hobbled through the tent, toward the backstage area. The newly constructed runway gleamed under the spotlights, three rows of white folding chairs lining either side. Two of Le Croix's assistants were making their way down the aisles, placing programs on the chairs as Ann looked on, talking into her headset to someone about there being too many red hues in the lighting setup.
I passed her with a cursory wave (which she was too busy to return) as I rounded the runway and went through the curtains separating the staging area.
Whereas the runway was in a state of quiet anticipation the backstage area was already bordering on manic chaos. Hair being teased, makeup applied with quick practiced strokes by a team of professional artists, and last minute adjustments being made to sew, pin, and tape the girls into their first outfit.
I spied Dana in a director's chair in front of a mirror, getting bright green eyeshadow swiped along her lids. Huh, what do you know? Maybe Mom and high fashion weren't that far off from each other.
"Hey," I said, coming up behind her.
She opened one eye. "There you are. Hey, Jean Luc's looking for you. He said he heard on TV that you were doing an interview after the show?"
Wow, news traveled fast. On the upside that meant Marcel had kept up his side of the bargain. While I'd fibbed to him about my motives for getting the story out, I sincerely hoped that I did have the exclusive of a lifetime to give him once this was all over. I mentally crossed my fingers that Pierre's cameras were rolling as I filled Dana in on my plan.
By the time I got to the end, her eyes was shadowed in a dramatic sweeping green and Jean Luc was shouting for "the shoe girl". I gave Dana's arm a squeeze and told her to break a leg while I went off to fit my makeshift footwear on the models.
The rest of the morning went by in a blur of clothing, shoes, accessories, and a myriad of last minute crises, each one prompting Jean Luc to pop antacids as if he were growing a garden of ulcers in his gut. By the time I heard the sounds of people filtering into the tent, taking their seats in anticipation of the big show, I was a nervous wreck. Not only due to Jean Luc's infectious anxiety, but even more so, to what lay ahead afterward. And who might, at that very moment, be breaking into my hotel room to steal decoy evidence.
Which is probably why I jumped about a mile into the air when he came up behind me.