“Wait. Who’s Nunzio?”
“An Italian sculptor—he’s not important, but what he said is. Breanne’s been wheeling and dealing behind the scenes, making bargains to get herself freebies. It doesn’t sound like the woman in her bio.”
Mike leaned over my shoulder to read the computer screen. “Yeah. There’s a lot of spongy language here.” He pointed. “ ‘Studied at the Sorbonne.’ When? Doesn’t say she actually graduated. And who’s this ‘family friend’? No hard dates, names, facts. She admits in the bio that she’s legally changed her name, which would discourage any cursory background checks; someone would have to spend money and a whole lot of time to dig up a story, if there even is one, on her past. You’re right. Sounds like a scam job. Why don’t you ask Breanne about it?”
“If it’s just résumé enhancement, it’s no big deal, right?”
Mike laughed. “If that were a crime, I’d have to arrest half the city—and all the politicians.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said. “But with Knox threatening an exposé, and my own investigation turning up facts about Breanne that don’t add up, I’d really like to know what Matt is marrying into.”
Mike began to massage my shoulders. “Joy’s about to get a stepmother. Is that it?”
“I’d just like to know what Breanne is hiding, what’s behind the cashmere curtain.”
“Will she tell you if you ask?”
“Doubtful. She’s got the brick wall thing down pretty well.”
“You know, Cosi, whenever I hit a brick wall, I go the other direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said Randall Knox implied there was some kind of link between Breanne and the stripper Hazel Boggs. They shared more than a physical resemblance, right?”
“Right.”
“So look at Hazel to find out what they shared. Call the Fish Squad. Ask them what they dug up on the girl. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Breanne.”
A horn honked outside, and Mike glanced at his watch. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got to go. Sully’s picking me up down on the—”
The horn honked again. Mike poked his head out the window. “Knock if off, Sully!”
“You’re late!”
“I’m coming! Stop disturbing the peace!”
He brought his head back in. “Don’t forget, you have a change of clothes here in the top drawer. Your sneakers are in my closet. Now kiss me good-bye.”
I did (and for a lot longer than was probably prudent, given Sully’s third horn blast). Mike slipped out the door, and I sighed. It was hard to see my man go. I hung out the window, waited for him to hit the street—one last look.
“Bye, honey!” I shouted.
“See you tonight!” he shouted back.
He threw me a kiss and climbed into Sully’s car. I drew my head inside the window, went to the kitchen, and poured another cup of Mike’s coffee. Then I called the Sixth Precinct.
“Detective Lori Soles.”
“This is Clare Cosi, Detective. I’d like to talk to you one more time about Hazel Boggs...”
I didn’t dress for Trend’s offices. The sneakers, jeans, and sweater that I’d stashed at Mike’s apartment would have to do.
“Breanne, I need to speak with you.”
“What?” Breanne glanced up from her massive glass desk, her delicate eyewear perched on the end of her nose. “Clare? What are you doing here?”
I walked into her office, shut the door, and threw the lock. “I’m here to get your side of the story.”
“What story? I don’t understand?”
“I just spoke with Hazel Boggs’s mother. She’s downtown, collecting Hazel’s remains and personal items. Like her daughter, Rhonda Boggs looks just like you.”
Breanne blanched for a moment. Then the mask was back. “I don’t know what you think you’ve uncovered, Clare, but—”
“There’s no thinking about it.” I strode up to her desk and showed her my cell phone photos of Hazel, Rhonda, and a snapshot among Hazel’s possessions that linked both women to Breanne. “I blew up the image of the snapshot on my computer and printed it out.”
I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and unfolded the paper. The enlarged photo showed a young Breanne, standing in front of a run-down trailer, arm in arm with a young Rhonda Boggs, who was pointing proudly to an issue of Vogue.
“I couldn’t read the smaller type on the magazine cover, so I looked up this issue on the library’s database. And guess what the cover story was titled: ‘Architect of Fashion,’ by Breanne Summour.”
Breanne sat back in her chair. “Okay, so you are a decent sleuth. Why are you here?”
“Randall Knox claims he knows what you and Hazel Boggs shared besides a physical resemblance. He obviously knows what I know, and on Monday he’s going to publish it.”
Breanne shook her head, took off her glasses. “I doubt that little twerp knows the whole story. No one knows the whole story. Not even my ex-husband knew the truth. No one knows but me.”
“Well, I certainly know a lot of it based on my interview with your younger sister. You were born Rita Boggs in a trailer park outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, the oldest of four children. After high school, you attended community college, but you were forced to drop out of school after only one year when your father, an ex-con who did time for armed robbery and attempted murder, got on his hog and rode away. Am I warm?”
“Okay, Clare. What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what do I want?”
“Everyone who comes to me with that story wants something. What do you want?”
“Breanne, I don’t understand you. Hazel Boggs was your niece, for God’s sake. You never even admitted to Matt that it was your niece who was murdered!”
“I never met the girl, Clare. It’s been twenty years since I’ve even seen my sister. Now, what do you want to keep this quiet?”
“I don’t want anything! Clearly, you’ve cut all ties to your past. That’s the way you want it—and I can see now that’s why you expected Matt to cut his ties, too.”
“I don’t expect it anymore.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But, look, even though your background is your own private business, Matt should know the truth before you marry him.”
“No.”
“Why? You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your sister told me that you send her and your younger brothers money on a regular basis—”
“And I only ever asked them for one thing in return: to never speak of my background. Rhonda obviously forgot that bargain.”
“Don’t blame her for opening up to me. She believed I was working with the detectives who were investigating her daughter’s death—which I was, frankly. She had no idea I had a connection back to you.”
“She shouldn’t have talked to you, Clare. And she should have told me that Hazel was living in New York.” Breanne glanced away; her clipped tone softened. “I never met my niece, but I would have helped her if I’d known she was here.”
“Hazel didn’t want you to know. She knew you wanted your privacy. And she had her own pride, too. That’s how Rhonda put it. She said her daughter came to New York to make it on her own like her aunt did. Maybe Hazel never met you, Breanne, but she greatly admired you.”
“Is that so? And is that why she dressed like me to strip?”
“She only did it twice. The look-alike agency regularly booked her out as other celebrities. It was Randall Knox who saw the resemblance and paid her to imitate you. Your sister had no idea Hazel was hiring herself out as an exotic dancer to make ends meet.”