Fashion Faux Pas

The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.

"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."

"Poppycock? Who are you?"

"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."

"I think you've just answered your own question."

"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."

"What made you change your mind?"

"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."

The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.

Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.

"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"

"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.

"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."

"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."

"On-what?"

"Apathy. Boredom."

"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."

"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.

He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.

The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.

"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."

"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.

Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"

"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.

"Quit drooling."

"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment.  "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."

******

SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.

The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.