High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

Her jaw dropped before she remembered her mouth was full of toast. “Why the hell not?” She wanted to scream in frustration.

“Because our boy has moved to the next level. Meaning he’s about to make a mistake…if he hasn’t already. And then we’ll get him.” Emitting a low whistle, he pulled out a chair and sat down. “What can you tell me about these photos?” He indicated the oh-so-fucking-lovely pics accompanying the vile posts.

Looking at the High-Heeled Wonder’s bloodied carcass made the toast rhumba in Sylvie’s stomach. In one fell swoop, the bastard had torched everything she’d spent years building. Her audience would rebel. Advertisers would abandon her. Worst of all, her family and everyone she loved would pay the price, too. Guilt by association was practically a bylaw written into the fashion world’s social contract.

Whatever it took, she was going to hunt this weasel down and make him pay, big time.

She pointed at the woman eating cake. “This is Estelle Vance. She’s the premiere plus-sized model in the industry. Gorgeous woman, great personality, and smart as hell. She’s walked in several of my fathers’ shows.” She pointed to the next picture. “That’s Bob Shneizer, head buyer for Dylan’s Department Store, taking a hit off of Mila Kontis’s right butt cheek.”

“How can you tell whose ass it is?” He stared at the screen showing a woman’s body but not her face. She couldn’t blame him. Mila’s back was arched and her right arm raised above her head, showing off her cellulite-free behind to perfection as she lay on the glass coffee table.

“Tattoo on her elbow.” Sylvie touched the screen, an inch below the Olympic rings tattoo. “She won a silver medal in archery.”

Tony grunted and leaned in for a closer look. Close enough that his breath practically steamed up the screen.

Sylvie fought the urge to kick him in the shins. Hard.

“Hot damn.” His voice had risen an octave.

“What?”

“There’s something reflected in the glass. See it? Right…here.” His pointer finger landed three inches up from the crack of Mila’s ass.

Squinting, she could almost turn the blur into a recognizable form. “I give up. What is it?”

Tony clicked a camera icon on the desktop and opened the photo to full screen. Mila’s butt took up seventy-five percent of the space. He scrolled upward until the blur took center stage. A few more clicks and he zoomed in further. Two pinkish, pixelated triangles appeared.

An answer tugged at her subconscious, taunting her. While she tried to yank the truth to the forefront, Tony grabbed his phone and dialed.

“Hey, Carlos, I’m sending you a picture. The resolution is for shit. I need you to clean it up and get it back to me.” He paused. “It could be the thing that breaks this case wide open. I need it yesterday, man.” He nodded. “Great.”

He set the phone down between them and they both stared at the screen as if it were the second coming of Coco Chanel.

She said, “It could be a street sign.”

“Maybe, but the color seems off.”

“A picture?”

“That’s my guess. Or…it could be a store logo.”

She tilted her head to gain a different perspective. Still nothing. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she tilted her head the other way.

The cell buzzed. “Hiya,” Tony answered.

The gears shifted in Sylvie’s head. Hiyah. As in a karate kick. With a high falsetto… She whipped her head around and locked onto the screen.

Little pink triangles.

“Tony, those are Miss Piggy ears.” Her words wheezed out, squeezed out of her by the too tight corset of realization. “Just like the ones in Anders Bloom’s last collection.”

Chapter Fourteen

“I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men.”

—Marlene Dietrich

Tony was trying to sneak out on her. Again. The little shit.