Free 2 Death of a Supermodel by Christine DeMaio-Rice

to be a creative partner, and ask her to get her public relations people or press agent or whoever to spin the Thomasina thing? Then what if Pierre actually comes up with the alternate backing he keeps promising?”
    He shrugged. “The PR firm’s on retainer. No loss for her, really.”
    She had no idea how it all worked, nor did she understand how you kept a firm on retainer, though she knew that was something you did if you were really loaded. What she did understand was that Jeremy was the same manipulative user he’d always been, and she was glad he was on her side.
    “How’s Ruby holding up?” he asked.
    “The cops are grilling her good, and she’s supposed to be in the showroom, otherwise—”
    “I mean about Thomasina.”
    “Fine, I guess.”
    He tossed the empty bottle away. “Well, now that the show’s over, you can pay attention to your boyfriend. He can’t like your hours.”
    “Who?”
    “The guy in the bike shorts.” Jeremy waved his hand, as if to draw the name into his head.
    “Stu?”
    “Right. The one who interviewed me for some article.”
    “He’s not my boyfriend.”
    Jeremy sucked his lips in, and the lower part of his face got very tense. She thought maybe he was trying not to smile, but then pushed the thought out of her head.
    “Ruby said—”
    Laura cut him off. “Ruby subsists on hope and imagination. He and I were over before we started.”
    “How do you feel about that?” He was smiling again, which freaked her out almost as much as a question with the word feel in it. Jeremy didn’t ask about feelings, and he didn’t talk about them either. Feelings weren’t business.
    “I feel fine,” she said.
    “Good. I’m very happy to hear it. Very happy.”
    He looked as though he wanted to say more, but Laura couldn’t think of a practical reason to linger. On her way out, she glanced back at him. He stood in front of Renee’s desk, smiling.
    When she returned to her showroom, she stuffed the papers back into the wallet. As she was about to put the pill bottle back into the inside pocket, she covered her hand with her sleeve, opened the bottle, and popped a little capsule into her palm. Having gone over the edge into buttinski mode, she saw no reason to hold back and slipped the pill into her pocket. Then she picked up the cellphone and checked for new messages. Nothing. Bobcat had been the last. She guessed everyone knew there was no point in texting a dead woman.
    Bobcat.
    Stupid. Of course, it was Bob Schmiller. She marveled at the complete douchebaggery of it. She got angry on Ivanah’s behalf and wondered if he’d invested in Sartorial to gain access to Thomasina, screwing over Ivanah’s desire for her own company. By the time she had the bag repacked, she was mad as hell. She wanted nothing to do with him. Then, she thought, maybe, just maybe, she should get to know him a little better if she wanted to find out who had killed Thomasina Wente.
    She put the bag on the table with a note for Corky saying she realized it was Thomasina’s. She left Cangemi’s card so Corky could call for the police to come and get it. She had nothing else to do, and it was too late to go back to her bed in Bay Ridge, so she went to her shoot.

CHAPTER 5.

    The train to Williamsburg was quiet, and she almost missed Bedford Avenue because she was dozing off. When she exited, it was four o’clock, two hours before call, and the bars were just closing. Tuesday night/Wednesday morning revelers strolled, stumbled, and rolled into the street. Gypsy cabs trolled under the lightening sky, radios buzzing, and slowed outside the station, looking for a fare too drunk to walk home.
    She found a diner that had been in business since at least the 1970s, so unhip as to be wildly hip. The guy behind the counter looked as if he slept under the grill where the clattery metal cooking doodads were stored when he wasn’t counting out greasy bills with Botox-injected fingers. She sat at the counter, trying