Page 83 of Triggered By Love
“Let me get this straight. Alida represents models. She also represents Avery, a fashion designer. Is there a conflict of interest?”
“Not if Avery’s aware of it.”
“If these male models worked for Avery, and Alida represents them, she could have placed them with the congressmen’s fundraiser too.”
“That’s a big if,” Blade reminded him. “Even if the models attended the parties, there’s no evidence they were murdered. They might have binged too much and overdosed.”
“It’s suspicious. I’ll want to study the photos again and the crime scene report.”
“Just because the models walked for Avery doesn’t mean a connection,” Blade said.
“How about the man in the painting I found at Ivanna’s? Doesn’t he resemble one of the dead men?”
“On the surface, it resembles Garm Guillory,” Blade confirmed. “But there aren’t any tattoos on the shoulders.”
“It’s art,” Jason replied. “She might have painted over them, and it’s unfinished.”
“It also depends on how close she is to realism,” Blade said. “I don’t think it’ll hold up in a court of law. She could have copied the facial features from a photograph.”
“Or used his brother as a model,” Jason finished the thought. “I caught Saul Guillory inside Avery’s apartment a few minutes back. They both appeared anxious when I showed up.”
“Wonder if he’s her dealer,” Blade mumbled. “You’ve been with her. Any signs of drug use?”
“Wasn’t with her long enough,” Jason said. “She does seem jumpy at times, and other times, she’s confident. She’s operating her business normally, so if she’s a user, it’s occasional and used to suppress appetite or focus on her job.”
He wasn’t going to let his partner in on the wild sex. Had Avery taken meth before going down on him? The entire episode felt out of character for her, as if she’d flipped on a switch and regretted it the next morning—hence the ice-cold shoulder.
She was not a regular user because her teeth were too beautiful. He’d been too excited to check for needle marks and bruising, but she was unlikely to be injecting meth, since the high would be intense and drop off faster than snorting or swallowing.
The next time he got her in bed, he’d better be in control enough to observe her responses. Meth would enhance her orgasms, cause her heartbeat to race and her blood pressure to soar. She could turn argumentative, aggressive, and much more daring in the activities she’d engage in.
Bottom line. He’d been too carried away with his feelings and emotions that he hadn’t been investigating. What a dereliction of duty.
He walked around her apartment, cataloging her personal possessions and the items she had on display. Her style was tasteful for a fashion designer. Nothing wild or modern. The furniture was traditional and comfy, with a pair of wingback chairs near the window and a drafting table in front of the window.
She’d deflected his question about her design notebook, making him doubly curious about the contents. Since she was busy in the bathroom, he flipped through it, page by page.
Some of the drawings were detailed and others were mere doodles. She’d put thought bubbles over the models to portray what emotion she tried to evoke. Some of the comments were offhand and others had an edge of humor.
For example, a stick figure model draped in what looked like a feathered headdress had a droll remark. “Do I look like I’m a birdbrain to you?”
Another one with a ridge of quills protruding from his forehead had a thought bubble. “Prickly, especially before coffee.”
What was her obsession with animals? He wondered at the muscular half-man, half-horse figure with the long flowing mane and the fringed loincloth. She certainly had a wild imagination.
A man with a forked tongue had a row of fins over his eyebrows and a set of reptilian scaly arms like the ones he saw at Ivanna’s apartment. Another one resembled Matt Swanson. He had bold features, a cleft chin, and instead of a human nose, he had a beak like a hawk. The clothes were classic suit, tweeds, pants, very twentieth century, but the face had a sharp, piercing quality to it—like looking into the eyes of a bird of prey.
What was interesting were the accessories he’d combed through at Ivanna’s place. Some of them were lifted directly out of the sketchbook, whereas others seemed more theatrical than suited for the runway—although these days, the fashion shows were full of outlandish displays of attention catching “art.”
He heard the tap turn off and was about to shut the book when he skipped to the page bookmarked by a charcoal pencil.
The face was his, but the hair was like that of a porcupine, stiff and erect, with each tip sharp like a dart. The thought bubble above his head read, “Poke me at your own peril.”
He chuckled at her sense of humor. How well she’d captured his essence. He should have T-shirts made.
The sound of the doorknob had him dropping the cover. He turned ninety degrees to admire a piece of African art mounted on the wall—a colorful geometric mask towered with a dense fringe of upright feathers.
“Hey, you ready to go?” he asked without looking at her.
