Which you are not making any easier.'
'Oh, so now I should be trying to make his job of building a case against me easier? Someone's trying to frame me, Jack!'
'Which doesn't give you license to break into the murdered woman's hotel room.'
I crossed my arms over my chest. Which was not easy to do with crutches stuck in my armpits, but was worth the effect. 'So what, you gonna lock me up?'
Ramirez breathed in deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring as that vein in his neck bulged in earnest now. 'No. They're letting you go into my custody. I convinced them it was a language barrier thing.'
'And Felix? I'm not leaving without him.'
Some indefinable emotion flitted across Ramirez's face. 'This guy really means that much to you, huh?'
'Of course not,' I said. A little too loudly. 'He doesn't mean anything to me. I just… it was my idea. He went along with it. I owe him.'
Ramirez bit the inside of his cheek, doing that stare down thing he usually reserved for criminals he was trying to intimidate a confession out of. I held my ground, still crossing my arms, jutting my chin out defiantly, trying to squeeze one more half inch of height out of my already stretched spine.
'At the very least they'll want him extradited back to England.'
'Hey, as long as he's not rotting in jail, I don't care where he goes.'
Ramirez made a sound halfway between a snort and a growl. Then turned around without a word and hailed a passing cab. He opened the back door.
'Get in,' he commanded.
'Where am I going?'
'Back to the hotel.'
'And you?'
His jaw went granite again. 'To find out where they're holding Felix.'
I dropped the defensive posture. 'Thanks.' I stood on tip-toe (just one) and planted a kiss on his cheek.
'Hmm,' he grunted. Though, I thought I saw that vein in his neck relax just a little.
I got in the cab and watched his retreating form as he walked back to the police station. Okay, so maybe he wasn't always the easiest guy to get along with. But he did bail me out of jail. Gotta love the man for that.
The ride to the hotel seemed to take forever, and by the time I'd fought my way through the paparazzi standing vigil outside, I was tired, hungry, and really, really needed to go to the bathroom. I took care of the latter first, before collapsing on the bed and dialing room service for the biggest order of crepes they had. I was just digging into it when the adjoining door to my room popped open.
'Maddie! There you are, were have you been?' Mom asked, bustling into the room with a handful of shopping bags. Mrs. Rosenblatt waddled along behind her, her bright blue muumuu accessorized with three strands of plastic yellow pearls. I swear I needed sunglasses around the woman's wardrobe. Mom was more subdued today – white stretch pants under a black skirt with a stretchy black and white polka dotted top and her black high tops. Okay, so maybe 'subdued' was a stretch. But this was Mom we were talking about.
'Where was I? Where have you two been? I tried to call you last night.'
'Last night we dragged that Pierre fellow to the Eiffel Tower,' Mrs. R said.
'The tower?' I asked, my voice going high. Great – they went to the Eiffel Tower and I went to prison.
Mom nodded. 'Oh, Mads, you should see it at night, all lit up. It's the most magical thing I've ever seen in my whole life. I have to come back here with Ralphie. It's so romantic.'
Mrs. R let a frown settle between her draw-in brows. 'Pierre didn't think it was romantic. He didn't even try to kiss me.'
Imagine that.
'So what have you been up to?' Mom asked.
'I had a little run in with the police.'
'Police?' Mom swayed in her high tops, falling back on the bed beside me. 'Oh, my baby,' she said as she dove in for a patented rib crusher hug. This time, though, I let her. After spending the morning in a holding cell, I'll admit, I could use a hug.
'What happened?' Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.
I filled them in on my adventures in the French criminal justice system while I devoured the plate full of crepes. By the time I was done, Mom was back to hugging me again.
'Mom, I'm fine. Really.' I wriggled out of her death grip. 'So, what's with all the shopping bags?'
'Well,' Mom said, straightening up. 'Like I promised, we spent yesterday gathering info on Gisella.' She gestured to Mrs. R who pulled a sheaf of papers out of one the bags and handed it to me. 'Did you know she was booked to do seven different shows this week?'
I shook my head. 'No.' I thumbed through the papers. They were printouts of various fashion websites, online gossip columns, and industry blogs.
Mrs. R nodded. 'Yep. The Le Croix was her only lead, but she was doing runway for six other designers. So, your mom and I figured we check 'em out today.'
'We went undercover as Fashion Week tourists,' Mom said, her eyes shining.
I looked down at the bags. 'Mom, you are tourists.'
'Anyway, you'll never guess what we learned, Mads. That necklace you said went missing at the Le Croix show? Four of the other designers Gisella was working for said they've had pieces go missing as well. We asked, but only a couple of them had reported the thefts to the police. The others figured the pieces were just misplaced in the chaos of getting ready for the event and would turn up soon enough.'
'Just like Jean Luc.'
Mom nodded. 'Interesting coincidence?'
As much as I was beginning to hate that word, I had to agree with her. I wished we'd had time to check the pockets of Gisella's Chanel. I'd bet my ballet flats there were more than hankies in them.
'All right, so let's assume that Gisella was taking the jewelry. Then what? What did she intend to do with them?' I asked.
Mom shrugged. 'Sell them?'
'On the black market! She had to have someone fencing the jewels for her. A partner,' Mrs. R said. 'My third husband, Alf, had a pawn shop for a while. They're real particular about what they take. They don't wanna get busted. It ain't as easy as it looks to unload hot stuff.'
'So, assuming it was Gisella, who was unloading it for her?' I wondered out loud.
'Another model?' Mom offered. 'Mystery boyfriend?'
'Maybe her agent?' Mrs. R piped up.
I thought about that. Angelica had said that Gisella called her agent numerous times a day. Maybe the calls hadn't been about booking a cover after all, but about where to get rid of a half million dollars in stolen diamonds. 'Did you find anything on who her agent is?' I asked, shuffling through the computer printouts.
'Here,' Mrs. R said, pointing to a printout of a website that read 'Girardi Models' across the header. 'Donata Girardi. She's based in Milan, Gisella's hometown.'
'Oh, I saw something about that,' Mom said, grabbing the stack from me. More shuffling. 'Ah!' She pulled a gossip column out. 'Donata Girardi is staying at the Hotel de Crillon. She's the one that threw the party where Gisella wore the necklace.'
I stared at the party photos. I wasn't entirely convinced that Gisella was a master thief, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a conversation with her agent.
'Okay, first thing tomorrow, we'll question her.'
'Question who?'
Mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt and I snapped our heads up in unison, all eyes pointed at the adjoining doorway where Ramirez's frame had suddenly appeared.
'Who are you going to question?' he repeated, stepping into the room.
'No one,' I said quickly. Then gave Mom and Mrs. R serious psychic vibes to ix-nay on the estions-quay. 'We're not questioning anyone.'
'Okay.' Ramirez narrowed his eyes. 'Maybe I should rephrase. Who are we
