New York’s calling – there’s an uber-glam case to crack and now I’ve got the perfect disguise!

Despite being the hottest new model around, all Axelle wants to do is solve mysteries. So when a fabulous diamond goes missing from a fashion shoot, the world’s only undercover model slips on her sky-high heels to catch the culprit.

Axelle thinks she’s solved the crime until things take an unexpected turn… and her gorgeous sidekick Sebastian goes missing too. Axelle’s feeling the heat in New York and not just because it’s Fashion Week!

Carina Axelsson is a former fashion model, whose jet-setting career saw her starring in advertising campaigns and fashion magazines across the globe, including shoots for Vogue and Elle.

After growing up in California, Carina moved to New York, and then later to Paris, where she studied art and rounded off her days in fashion with a short stint working as a PA to international fashion designer John Galliano. Her experiences – along with a love of Scooby-Doo and Agatha Christie – inspired her to write the Model Under Cover series.

Carina now lives in Western Germany with her partner and four dogs. She writes and illustrates full-time.

www.carinaaxelsson.com

instagram.com/carinaaxelssonwriter

uk.pinterest.com/carinaaxelsson

For Ellen, Marina, and Victoria

MONDAY MORNING

The Big Apple

MONDAY AFTERNOON

The Briefing

MONDAY EVENING

Who’s Who

TUESDAY MORNING

The Black Amelia

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

TUESDAY EVENING

Make-up and Masks

WEDNESDAY MORNING

A Passion for Fashion

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

Fashionable Plans

WEDNESDAY EVENING

Double Trouble

THURSDAY MORNING

Rogue Rumours

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

Back to the Drawing Board

THURSDAY EVENING

Confessions and Fries

FRIDAY MORNING

Sewing on the Last Sequins

FRIDAY EVENING

Cat and Mouse

SATURDAY MORNING

A Sky-High Surprise

Don’t miss Axelle’s next case: Deadly by Design

Catch up with Axelle’s first case

How to Speak Supermodel

The New York List

Acknowledgements

I’m on my way to Chic: New York, the fashion magazine – or, more specifically, to their head office located just off Times Square in New York City. And before you start thinking this is another one of my mum’s hard-core plans to get me modelling…it’s not.

You see, I’m not in New York City on my way to Chic as a model. I’m on my way to Chic as a detective.

Not that I know many details yet about the case I’ve been asked to solve…

The call from Chic: New York came two days ago, just as I’d wrapped up solving my first big mystery during Paris Fashion Week.

“Axelle, I thought you might be interested to hear about a call I’ve had from New York,” my modelling agent, Miriam, said into the phone on Saturday afternoon, her breathless voice a conspiratorial whisper. I remember the exasperation I felt as I stood, ice cream in hand, on a bridge over the Seine, trying to formulate an excuse to get out of whatever modelling job this was surely about.

But the call wasn’t about a modelling job, and my exasperation quickly turned to excitement when I heard her continue: “Have you ever heard of the ‘Black Amelia’? It’s the most famous black diamond in the world. Chic: New York is – was – using it on a cover shoot, but…it’s missing. It hasn’t been seen since yesterday. Chic would prefer not to involve the police just yet…so they are wondering if you’d be interested in accepting the case?”

Interested? Are you kidding? Do fashionistas wear black? Do I like French fries?

The Chic: New York team must have heard the news about me solving the mystery of missing French fashion designer Belle La Lune – and that I’d managed to find her before the French police! I was thrilled that they’d asked for my help and accepted the job straight away. But before jetting off to the Big Apple, I went home to London with Mum to repack my suitcase, and to see my dad and Halley (my West Highland White Terrier). And so this morning, I caught a direct flight out of London.

Sitting in the back of the enormous black Cadillac Escalade SUV (sent by Chic) that had picked me up at John F. Kennedy Airport, I stretched my legs and stifled a quick yawn before pressing my face against the window. I silently ogled the view as the driver, whose name I’d learned was Ira Perlman, deftly weaved his way through the late-morning Manhattan traffic.

In case you’ve never been, New York City looks like a film set. As we navigated our way out of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, all around me I could see shiny skyscrapers, pavements crowded with a gazillion people, and honking yellow cabs. And even if it had been my first time in the Big Apple (I’d actually been with my parents a couple of times before), the gridlike street layout would still have felt familiar from various films and television shows (like Law and Order – my gran loved the US version and watched it for years, in between Midsomer Murders and Miss Marple). The city seemed to vibrate with a frenetic energy all of its own.

I watched as plastic bags blew across the streets and leaves fluttered in the early spring wind. Cool, sharp gusts were blowing in off the New Jersey shore. I had to admit that my mum had been right to insist that I pack the new trench coat she’d bought me (“Burberry!” she’d chirped. “And only half price!”).

Apparently my mum was psychic too, because at that moment my phone rang. Bracing myself for the onslaught of questions, I answered.

“Axelle, darling! How was the flight? How’s New York City? Wonderful, isn’t it? I wish I was with you! Your baggage didn’t get lost, did it?” The questions came so thick and fast that I didn’t even get a chance to respond, until finally I heard, “I have to go now, Axelle, I have to meet a client” (Mum is an interior designer) “but I’ll call you later. Your father and I are so proud of you. Modelling in New York City!”

Modelling! Argh! My mum was so in denial! When, I asked myself, will she finally understand that all I want to do is solve mysteries? And that modelling and high heels and hairspray mean nothing to me? At least, nothing more than offering the perfect cover for sussing out fashion crimes, like tracking down a missing designer or a famous black diamond. My mum’s big dream has always been for me to model – like, real modelling, not undercover modelling. And clearly – annoyingly! – even after cracking last week’s big, juicy case in Paris, it’s still her dream for me.

Grrr!

I took a deep breath to control myself and said as lightly as I could, “Well, I have to go now, too, Mum. I have an appointment at Chic – about the case.”

“Yes, well, have fun! Maybe you’ll shoot a cover – I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Bye for now, darling.”

As I slipped my phone back into my pocket it vibrated. I pulled it back out and read my new messages. There was a cute one from my dad and another one from my BFF at home in Notting Hill, Jenny. Ellie B (non-modelling name: Elizabeth Billingsley), the new friend I’d made last weekin Paris, had also sent me a text welcoming me to the Big Apple and asking if we could have dinner together later. She’d just flown into town for New York Fashion Week, which was starting on Wednesday. The last message was from Miriam, my agent, checking that I’d arrived safely, and that the car Chic had promised had picked me up from the airport as planned.

Miriam – Miriam Fontaine, Paris-based agent supremo – had been super-helpful and kind since the events of last week. I’ve known her my whole life, as she was my fashion-editor aunt’s oldest friend, and it was her agency that represented me when I modelled (undercover) at Paris Fashion Week. After the story of how I’d found Belle broke, Miriam made sure I was all right, fending off the press and keeping my mum calm. She also – together with Chic – organized this trip to find the Black Amelia.

But in the aftermath of all that had happened, I’d occasionally caught her looking surreptitiously at me through slightly narrowed eyes; and while she didn’t say anything, I knew she’d been completely surprised by the fact that I’d solved the mystery of Belle’s disappearance – even if she did know that I’d been obsessed with solving mysteries since, like, for ever.

Fortunately for me, Miriam also had an agency in New York City, and was happy to continue representing me as a fashion model here, too. Because, yes, I’d decided that the best course of action for solving this crime was once again to go undercover as a model. It was the easiest way for me to infiltrate the closed world of fashion, especially during Fashion Week when no one in the business would have any time to spare for my questioning. But to work as a model I needed the help of an agency. And who better than Miriam and her well-respected team? I knew I could trust her to be discreet, and I knew she’d help me keep up my modelling pretence.

Hervé (my booker at Miriam’s agency in Paris) had also sent a message wishing me luck and something about an option for a magazine editorial in Paris.

I quickly looked through my messages again. No, there was definitely nothing from Sebastian.

But had I really expected there to be?

My throat tightened at the thought of his cool grey eyes, and the warm smell of his leather jacket – not to mention our last conversation. Argh! I fiddled with the buckle of my La Lune shoulder bag for another moment then, pushing Sebastian out of my mind, I looked back out the window.

Once we turned north onto 3rd Avenue, I was fascinated by the speed at which we flew past the bisecting streets: 38th Street, 39th, 40th, and on and on. Ira, the driver, was seemingly unfazed by kamikaze bike messengers or the enormous potholes pitting the street like a bad case of acne. Even the yellow cabs coming at us out of intersections or from behind other cars didn’t seem to concern him.

At that moment my phone rang again. It was a local number. It must be Miriam’s New York office, I thought as I answered.

“Hi, Axelle, I’m Pat Washington,” said a loud, energetic voice, “your booker here at Miriam’s NY. I can’t wait to meet you. Miriam and Hervé have told me so much about you. I just wanted to be sure you’ve arrived safely, and are on your way in…” I’d barely said I was before she carried on talking. “Great, because you are going to be busy – very busy. I’m just waiting for Chic: New York to confirm you for a shoot tomorrow, which is fabulous. You’ve also got several show castings lined up.”

Very busy? Fleetingly I wondered if she knew I was here to solve a crime or—

“Jared Moor,” Pat continued, “should confirm for tomorrow – I’ll let you know later today – and I’m still waiting to hear back from DKNY, Jorge Cruz, Diane von Fürstenberg, and The Isle – but don’t worry there’ll be others.”

Great, I thought. And when was I supposed to solve the case?

“As for your non-modelling business,” she continued pointedly, as if reading my mind, “we can discuss that in more detail when you’re here.”

Her brisk dismissal of my true reason for flying this far made me slightly nervous. Somehow I’d have to make it clear to her that I needed time to follow up on leads and clues – but surely Miriam had done that?

“Although,” Pat continued, “if you’ve looked at your printed schedule – did Ira give it to you? Yes? Good. Well, then you’ll know that you are going straight to Chic for a go-see before coming here. You’ll be seeing Cazzie Kinlan herself! She wants to meet you and maybe see you in some clothes before tomorrow’s shoot.”

As Pat continued talking about the coming week, I looked into the folder Ira had pointed out to me when I’d first climbed into the car. Pat was right, there was a printed schedule…but I noticed that behind the schedule there was also a slim envelope addressed to me. In it was a letter from Miriam. And according to the letter, the go-see at Chic that Pat was referring to was actually a briefing from their editor-in-chief about the case…so either Pat had no idea why I was really going to Chic – despite her earlier allusion to my “non-modelling business” – or she was being discreet. But before I could finish reading the letter, she cut through my jet lag with the following loud announcement:

“And, Axelle, I hope you look good, girl. Chic magazine is at the top of the fashion pyramid – you have to look your best going in there. Clean hair, some cute little outfit—”

“Yes, but I just got off an international flight! I hardly—”

“Girl, I don’t care if you just came in from Mars. You better freshen up and get it together. A model has to look like a model – got it? I’ll see you here after Chic. I’ll introduce you to everyone and then we’ll have lunch. Now get sharp, girl!”

Get sharp? I hung up and slumped back into the soft leather seat. Great. I’d only just arrived and already I had a fashionista breathing down my neck!

“Are we nearly there?” I asked Ira, picking up Miriam’s letter again.

Ira nodded, his long, frizzy orange hair bobbing. He was wearing Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses and a gold-and-diamond pinky ring that glinted in the sunlight every time he moved his right hand. “Yup. Traffic hasn’t been too bad this morning and I was able to avoid the construction work around the Chrysler Building, so I’d say we’ve made pretty good time.” As he turned left onto 7th Avenue he continued with a sideways nod of his head, “That’s the famous Times Square. And the Chic offices are a little further down on the left. The tall silver building, you see it?”

I nodded as, eyes glued to the window, I took it all in. So far on our drive through Manhattan, the loud, brash and bold attitude of the city was exactly as I’d remembered it. But on Times Square that attitude was amplified by, like, ten; plus there were those enormous billboards looming over everything. I couldn’t think of an equivalent at home in London. Trafalgar Square? No way. Too grand and old-world. Piccadilly Circus? Yes, that came much closer – but without the darker, Batman-Gotham vibe.

I caught Ira smiling at me in the mirror as he parked. “You know, Axelle…” (Unlike Pat, Ira pronounced my name like the car part, instead of the correct way, which is to rhyme it with the verb “excel”.) “I’ve been to Europe. I’ve seen a lot. London, Paris, Madrid. They got a lotta nice things, those cities, but not one of ’em has Times Square. You know what I’m saying?”

I sure did.

“Anyway, it’s a quarter past twelve, Axelle. I was told to be sure you weren’t late,” he said with a nod towards the silver skyscraper. “Must be important.”

“It might be,” I answered with a shrug of my shoulders, as visions of the missing diamond sparkled in my mind. “Anyway, thank you, Ira, for getting me here on time.”

“No problem, kiddo. I’ll be out here waiting for you. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Ira,” I said. I quickly ran my hands through my hair and popped a mint in my mouth. So much for looking sharp, I thought. Then I grabbed my shoulder bag and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The muted hush beyond the steel and glass doors stopped me in my tracks; Times Square and all of its colourful, noisy chaos was instantly relegated to another world.

Of course, Chic was another world – even within fashion.

I put my phone on silent and went to the reception desk. After giving my name, I was directed to the lifts. The Sid Clifton building – that’s the building I was in – houses all of the magazines published by Sid Clifton Inc., including Teen Chic and Chic Home and a host of other titles. And if the large portrait hanging in the lobby was anything to go by, then Sid Clifton wasn’t just a corporation, but a real person too.

The people going in and out of the lobby seemed to be a mixture of grey-suited corporate types, fierce-looking older women in elegant trouser suits or power dresses, bike messengers in full sportswear, and lots of young, glamorous journalist/junior-editor types with Starbucks coffees in hand. I also saw a few models, their large shoulder bags bumping against their hips as they bounded through the lobby, long hair streaming behind them.

Before calling a lift I took a quick look at myself in the large mirrored wall behind the reception desk. Skinny jeans, my new super-cool detective-style trench coat, little black jumper and Converse sneakers with DIY decorations (pointy silver studs). All topped off with a large gauzy scarf my mum had bought me over the weekend. “Modal and cashmere,” she’d explained. “It’ll keep you warm. New York can be quite blustery in spring. And it’ll add a touch of colour.” She was right; I liked the way it looked. I pinched my cheeks for a bit more colour, added some lip gloss, and stepped into a lift.

Thankfully, it was empty. I was starting to feel nervous – very nervous. “Calm down, Axelle. Relax,” I told myself, taking a deep breath. Naturally, I’d jumped at the chance to take on this case…but now that I was here – flown in from London by Chic! – the enormity of what I’d accepted suddenly hit me like a weighted handbag. There was no way out of this. And if I didn’t solve this case, pronto, my reputation would be reduced to that of a one-trick pony.

“Get it together, Axelle, get it together,” I repeated. My gran had always said, “You’ll be the world’s best detective one day, Axelle.” I took another deep breath and, with a quick look skywards (or lift-ceilingwards at least), I prayed for her to help me.

I stepped out on the 18th floor into the Chic lounge. It was a sophisticated, serene space of white and cream. Elegantly framed Chic covers decorated the walls and, straight ahead, in large brass letters on the creamy marble wall behind the receptionist’s desk, was the word CHIC. A few models were sitting in the lounge area, their long legs stretched out, phones or iPads in hand, shoulder bags slouching beside them on the white sofas.

I was halfway across the lounge when a young woman in teetering heels and a short skirt came out to greet me. “Axelle? Hi, I’m Amy, Cazzie Kinlan’s assistant,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Cazzie” (also known as Cassandra Kinlan) is the young British-born editor-in-chief of Chic: New York. Cazzie’s widely considered to be one of the new fashion stars of her generation – and she was the one who’d called Miriam to put me on this case.

I followed Amy through a labyrinthine warren of white offices and corridors. Shoes and dresses were everywhere: on heavily loaded racks, exploding out of rooms, spilling off shelves. And, like busy ants, a sophisticated, stylish assortment of women and men strode purposefully from place to place. “We’re nearly there,” Amy said, before stopping at a white door and softly knocking. “Ms Kinlan?”

Then, before I knew what was happening, I was sitting in a comfortable white armchair, about to take on my second case.

I hadn’t really known what to expect when meeting Cazzie…but I suppose I’d imagined someone like my Aunt Venetia (who until recently had been editor-in-chief of Chic: Paris, and whose skin was thicker than last season’s wedges).

Instead I was confronted with a waif-like young editor who was clearly anxious: a nervous, agitated energy came off her in waves.

She was standing near the large corner window opposite where I sat. She wore silky, calf-length pyjama bottoms – at least that’s what they looked like to me – with a pair of purple python-print stilettos. A flimsy camisole top worn under a tiny black fitted jacket completed her look. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders, like mine, but there the similarity ended: hers was stick-straight and with zero frizz. It probably looked amazing no matter what she did. She had wide hazel eyes and her fine, unadorned features reminded me of what Miriam had mentioned in her notes: that Cazzie had once been a model.

She gave me a brief once-over as Amy quietly left the room. Then, as soon as we were alone, Cazzie crossed the floor, introduced herself, and got straight to the point:

“My life is on the line.”

When she saw my eyes widen in shock, she sighed and slumped like a rag doll into her large white desk chair.

“I’m sorry, Axelle – I don’t mean that literally – I’m not personally threatened in any way,” she quickly clarified. “Although I feel as though I might as well be. You see, I was responsible for the diamond: it was my idea to use it, and it went missing on a shoot I’d organized and personally styled. And it was whisked away from right under my nose. Poof – gone! Just like that…” She turned and looked out of the window as she continued. “Axelle, if this diamond isn’t found, not only will I have made a mockery of Chic – I can assure you that no one will ever loan the magazine anything of value again – but my personal reputation will be in tatters. The fashion world will never let me near another magazine or photo shoot again! I might just as well start looking for a new job – in another business.” Turning back to face me she continued, “I need hardly tell you that the last thing I want is to have the police snooping around. The risk that people will start talking is far too high. That’s why I called you: I’m counting on your discretion. This story cannot leak! Please, Axelle, you must find the diamond – but I’m afraid you’ll have to do it on your own.”

From the many snippets of gossip I’d heard Aunt Venetia share with my mum over the years, I knew how unforgiving the fashion world could be; I had no doubt that Cazzie Kinlan’s livelihood and reputation were in dire straits. Furthermore, if this story went public, Chic would suffer a severe blow too. No surprise then that Cazzie was willing to try anything to avoid the police – even if it meant going with a sixteen-year-old fashion detective who was as untried as a new pair of shoes: me.

Then, before I could ask a question, she held out her mobile phone. “I received this yesterday – Sunday. I wanted to show it to you directly. I know I sound paranoid, but I didn’t want to discuss it with Miriam over the phone in case…” She stopped and drew a deep breath while I took her phone. “It’s from an unknown number.”

I read the brief text message.

Are you having a good weekend?

“For a split second,” Cazzie said, “I thought it must have been sent by a wrong number, that the message wasn’t intended for me. But then I had this strange feeling in my stomach, and I knew…I knew it had to be the person…the thief.” She shivered. “I can almost hear them laughing when I read it.”

“Have you received anything else like this?” I asked.

Cazzie nodded. “Sort of. It came early this morning – unknown number again. If you scroll down, you’ll see it. I don’t really understand…”

You’re about to start the ultimate treasure hunt. Answer correctly and you’ll find what you want. But be warned: by the time you find it, it’ll be the least of your worries…

Now I could hear the laughter too. The image of a deranged joker, head thrown back and cackling, came to mind. The first message could have been dismissed as a mistake, but this one was different; it was threatening.

Did “you’ll find what you want” refer to the Black Amelia? And what did the sender mean by “the least of your worries”?

“I tried writing back to them.” Cazzie quickly ran her hand over her face before continuing. “But my message didn’t go through. It was like the number was blocked or no longer existed.”

Hmm…so if it was the thief, then it seemed plausible that they were using a phone with disposable SIM cards to avoid being traced. But what were these messages about? What did they mean? There didn’t seem to be anything directly linking the messages to the theft of the Black Amelia, but there didn’t seem to be any other explanation. Not that I told Cazzie that…

“Who knows?” I asked. “About the missing diamond, I mean? Who have you talked to about it?”

“Besides you and me? Only Miriam. I haven’t even told my boyfriend – although he’s sensed something’s up. I’ve been jittery to say the least.” The dark circles under her eyes definitely attested to that. “But I haven’t told anyone here at the magazine and – apart from whoever took the diamond, and, like I said, you and Miriam – I doubt anyone else knows. If they do, it didn’t come from me.”

Then she pushed a black nondescript office folder across her desk towards me. In her soft English voice, she explained, “These are the notes Miriam told me you would need…”

I looked her in the eye as I took the folder.

She nodded, a faint smile at the corners of her lips. “And, yes, I wrote them myself, as per your instructions. Good thing you included that warning – I’ve fallen into the habit of letting my assistant, Amy, write everything up for me.”

When I’d accepted the case, I’d been meticulous in the detailed instructions I’d asked Miriam to pass on to Chic regarding what I would need – and secrecy had been a major factor.

“You should find everything you wanted: a list of those present at the shoot, their job description, a brief bio of each person, the studio’s address, and a few more details I thought might be useful to you.”

“And the shoot?”

Cazzie nodded. “For tomorrow? It’s just confirmed and everyone will be able to make it. It’s a fashion miracle, considering how busy everyone is in the run-up to the Fashion Week shows that start on Wednesday. And we’ll be the exact same group – just like last Friday, there’ll be no assistants and I’ll do the styling myself.”

One of the main things I’d mentioned in my instructions was to ask if there was any possibility of Chic organizing a reshoot: the same group of people, the same studio, the same time frame as the shoot last Friday. I wanted to – needed to – recreate as closely as possible the circumstances surrounding the Black Amelia’s disappearance. Because I didn’t yet have any tangible evidence to go on, I was hopeful that being in the same studio the diamond was stolen from, and meeting the group that had been present when it happened, might yield something, clue-wise. Plus, without a doubt, it was the most discreet way for me to ask questions without raising any suspicion: I could ask them about Friday while “working” with them, as opposed to tracking them down individually and trying to question them.

So it was great news that Cazzie had taken my request seriously and made the reshoot happen. “Not a problem,” she said when I thanked her. “I have plenty more clothes to photograph for the magazine’s upcoming issues, so it was easy enough to convince everyone that I needed them again – even last-minute.”

I opened the folder she’d given me and slowly perused the papers inside. On top was the list of those present at the shoot:

Studio 7, Juice Studios, Friday 9 a.m.–5 p.m.
Cazzie Kinlan: editor
Peter Van Oorst: photographer
Trish Fine: make-up artist
Tom Urbino: hair stylist
Chandra Rhodes: model
Misty Parker: model
Rafaela Cruz: model
Brandon Hart: photographer’s assistant/digi-tech

Hmmm…it was a small group. As I ran my eyes down the list I realized there were no assistants other than Brandon Hart – not that that would normally have struck me as odd, but after modelling in Paris all last week I knew that on photo shoots all the key players – i.e. photographer, stylist, hair stylist and make-up artist – have assistants… And yet there weren’t any on Cazzie’s list. Normally Cazzie would have had a junior stylist along with her, surely? And hadn’t the photographer used more assistants than just his digi-tech guy? And what about hair and make-up? I asked Cazzie about this.

“You’re right – normally there would have been a fair number of assistants on hand. Trish, Tom and Peter would certainly have had them. As for me, I normally don’t style the shoots. I did it this time around simply because the idea of using the diamond was mine – and I knew it wouldn’t be loaned to us if I wasn’t personally involved. So for the sake of the diamond and its security, I wanted to keep the number of people in the studio as limited as possible, hence no assistants – for any of us. I thought the fewer people who knew about it the better…not that my idea worked.” She broke off, her voice strangled with fear and worry. She stood up and paced the length of the large window, her stilettos sinking quietly into the plush white carpeting.

I skimmed through the rest of the notes as Cazzie continued to pace. Hmm…there was one detail I hadn’t thought about, one that now seemed glaringly obvious – and necessary.

“Cazzie?” I asked, standing up. “Do you mind if I use your computer?”

She stood by the window. “Of course not. Go ahead.”

I quickly crossed to her desk. I wasn’t sure I’d find what I wanted, but it was worth a try. They rented out space, after all. I googled Juice Studios NYC, then clicked on their web address, and – bingo – there it was: a diagram of Studio 7’s floor plan. In fact, their website showed a floor plan for every one of the seven studios they rented. I printed out Studio 7’s plan, and emailed it to myself too so that I had a copy of it on my phone.

From the detailed floor plan I saw that the studio was shaped like an L. A curtain could be pulled across the entire opening where the two rectangles met, creating a long area (the longer bit of the L) where the photo shoot took place and hair and make-up were done, and a short curtained-off space at the bottom, which was used as the dressing area.

Both a “normal” door and a large delivery door (for taking equipment in and out of the studio) were at the top of the main studio area. I asked Cazzie if the doors had been left open during the shoot.

“Once the day got started the delivery door remained shut – I’m sure of it – and the normal entry door was only used by the group…” As she spoke, Cazzie was looking over my shoulder at the floor plan. “Well, with the exception of our lunch delivery, which came from the cafeteria downstairs. But they only dropped our lunch off and then left.”

Then, moving her finger across the floor plan, she said, “In this corridor just outside the studio is a bathroom. That’s the one we used. So I don’t think anyone from our group left the seventh floor – at least not that I know of. And no Juice Studio assistants came up from downstairs – Peter sent Brandon down if he needed anything. Incidentally, Peter was the only person I said anything to about the diamond before the shoot.”

“When did you tell him you’d be shooting with it?”

“A few days ago. But, again, I trust Peter completely, and besides, it’s hardly the first time we’ve shot valuable jewellery together. Anyway, I don’t remember anyone else coming into the studio once we started shooting.”

“Juice Studios must keep a log of people who go in and out of the building…do you think there’s a way I can see it? Just for that day?”

Cazzie chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “The visitor’s log is kept at their reception desk – it’s the one everyone signs when they come in and leave… I’m sure I can get hold of it, but I’ll have to do it without raising suspicion… Leave it to me. I’ll send it to you as soon as I have it.

“What scares me,” she continued after a moment, “is that I’ve known almost everyone on that list for a long time. I mean, Trish, Tom, Peter and I have known each other since our teens, and I’ve known all three girls since they started modelling. And Brandon is someone I’ve started working with a lot, thanks to Peter. If you’d asked me on Friday morning if one of them could steal a diamond, I’d have laughed and bet my life that nothing like this could happen – even with the diamond in plain sight. Of course, for all I know, someone else may have come in who I didn’t see… I was in the dressing area half of the time, getting the girls ready, so…” She shrugged before continuing. “But like I said, Peter and I had made a point of reducing the amount of traffic through the studio.”

“And when did you notice the Black Amelia was missing?”

Her shoulders slumped as she answered. “Not until I was packing up to leave, when I checked the case it came in. Everyone else had already left. At first I thought it was one of Chandra’s practical jokes. I know it sounds odd,” she quickly added when she saw my eyes widen. “But if you knew Chandra, you’d know it’s exactly the kind of joke she likes to play. She loves magic and card tricks – she always has. I can’t tell you how many times she’s kept the crew entertained when we’ve been on location somewhere, waiting for the weather to change, or at the airport, delayed by a late flight. She’s especially good at making things disappear.” She paused for a moment. “I really thought it was one of her jokes. I even went so far as to call her…”

“And?”

“She answered, but she didn’t say anything about the diamond. She just sort of talked a bit about the day and then asked what I wanted.”

“So what did you say?”

“I was terrified of broaching the subject and ended up not saying anything. After all, if she hadn’t taken it, how would it sound if I started asking her about it?”

“As if you were accusing her…”

“Exactly. And of course she would have realized that the diamond was missing and I couldn’t risk that getting out. Anyway, after I got off the phone with her I realized that it couldn’t be Chandra who’d taken it.”

“Why?”

“Because Chandra always, in some little way, brings your attention to whatever she’s taken; I think she likes to see the surprise on your face. And anyway, I doubt even she would be bold enough to steal a diamond as a joke. Then again, she didn’t seem to give much thought to its value – unlike Misty and Rafaela, the other models shooting that day. They both asked a lot of questions about the Black Amelia…” Cazzie paused for a moment before continuing. “I was sick to my stomach when I didn’t find the diamond. I can’t tell you how I panicked. I searched the entire studio, every corner, every centimetre, but it was gone.” She let out a long sigh.

“And when you searched the studio, did you notice anything unusual, something that may have slipped your eye earlier in the day?”

“You mean like the proverbial loose thread from the thief’s jacket, or a crumpled note with a name on it?” She shook her head. “Sadly not – and, believe me, I looked. I even stayed on while the cleaners put everything in order – they do it in the evening so that the studio is ready for the following morning. I stayed on until it was spotless, white and shining. By this point I was frantic, I didn’t know what to do – I went home and fretted all night. And then, in the morning, the story about you finding Belle was all over the news and I thought you could be the answer to my prayers. I called Miriam straight away.”

I really hoped I could live up to her faith in me. I flicked through the dossier until I came to a photo of the Black Amelia.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said, “although, needless to say, it’s even more spectacular in real life.”

I pulled the photo out. The diamond was at the centre of an ornate piece of jewellery; the picture showed it modelled on someone’s hand. Fine strands of white gold set with tiny white diamonds formed rings around the middle and index fingers, then stretched down across the top of the hand where they encircled the Black Amelia. From the bottom of the black diamond another strand of small white diamonds dropped to the top of the wrist, where it joined a fine multi-strand bracelet. The effect of the large black glittering stone set into such a delicate ornament was exotic and unusual. Once seen, it could not be forgotten.

“By the way,” Cazzie said as I gazed at the image, “in the folder I’ve also included a brief history of the diamond. I doubt it has any direct bearing on its disappearance, but as you are trying to find it, I thought it might help you to know something about it.”

“How much is it worth?” I asked.

Cazzie shook her head. “A lot. You’ll see in the articles I’ve included that when it was last at auction it set a new world-record price for a black diamond.”

“But if the diamond is so valuable, wouldn’t it have had its own security guards?”

“Argh! Don’t remind me!” Cazzie said. She started to pace the room again. “This is the bit that kills me. Just thinking about it…” She turned to face me. “Normally the diamond would have had at least a couple of guards with it, but it belongs to a young guy called Noah Tindle. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Did he create Tindle Computers?”

Cazzie nodded. “Noah is a friend of mine; or, more specifically, his wife, Vanessa, is a very good friend of mine. She’s a model, and always says that I’m the one who got her career off the ground. So anyway, Noah owns the diamond. In fact, he owns quite a few gemstones; he has one of the largest private collections of gemstones in the world. And all of his stones are unique, both because of their cut and colour, and because of their provenance: Noah only likes stones that have dramatic love stories behind them.”

Cazzie actually cracked a small smile when she saw my surprise.

“I know – it doesn’t quite fit the image of a computer geek. But since marrying Vanessa – I introduced them, by the way – he’s been refining his collection to include only gemstones like the Black Amelia, the most famous black diamond in the world.

“Anyway, to get back to your question, yes, normally the diamond would have had a couple of security guards with it, but because I’m such an old friend of Noah’s and Vanessa’s, and because they were thrilled that the diamond would be used on the cover of Chic – Noah especially, because, like many of these computer types, he’s keen to be seen as interested in more than just software programs – they weren’t particularly worried about the diamond’s security. They knew it would be safe with me. They actually live in California, but Noah has been here for most of the last month, putting together a deal, so he had Vanessa send the diamond to him and he literally handed it to me early on Friday morning before the shoot, on his way to the airport. He was flying back home to see Vanessa, and do some work at his HQ, so we made arrangements – thank God – that I was to keep it for the entire week he’s gone, in the Chic safe. He’ll be back from California on Friday evening. I have to – you have to – find it by then. I feel like such a coward, not telling him anything, but how can I? How?”

She stood at the window, watching the traffic far below for a moment, before continuing, her voice a whisper. “But if we don’t have it back by Friday evening, then I’ll have to tell Noah and the police – and Sid Clifton, the owner of this building and the magazine.” There was a pause before she turned to look at me, shoulders heavy with fear and fatigue. “Please, Axelle,” she begged, “please, you have to find the diamond. I didn’t steal it, but somebody in the studio at that photo shoot did. And if I don’t get it back…”

We both left the rest unsaid.

Ira was waiting outside for me as promised. I slid into the car, and we continued downtown to Miriam’s agency on Mercer Street. We sped through midtown in no time, with Ira speaking as quickly as he drove: I was given a running commentary on the city all the way down. The traffic lights remained green for us until we hit Houston, the wide street that bisected the city east to west and that, according to Ira, was the “Ho” in SoHo (an acronym for “South of Houston”). After the brazen scale and slick, shiny façades of the buildings around Times Square, I was unprepared for the super-trendy and almost quaint feel of SoHo. A warren of one-way, narrow streets, like the rest of the city, SoHo was pulsating with life – but on a more human scale.

As Ira pulled up to the kerb on Mercer Street, I also saw that there was a marked difference between Miriam’s agencies: in Paris, Miriam’s was housed in a large, grand, two-hundred-year-old stone building on a wide, elegant boulevard; whereas here, the agency’s downtown location gave it a cool, funky vibe. The red-brick exterior and large loft-style windows looked friendly and unpretentious – an impression that was reinforced when I got out of the lift on the top floor and found myself directly in the agency’s lobby.

Jay-Z was playing over the music system and models came and went, while a few photographers stood at the large wall of zed cards that acted as a room divider. Through large glass doors to my right I could see an enormous roof terrace with wooden decking and an assortment of small ornamental trees, high grasses and colourful flowers; just like a meadow, only on a rooftop!

The sophisticated artsy-crafty vibe caught me by surprise. After speaking with Pat and hearing her admonitions to “Get sharp!” I’d expected something less…fun.

At that moment I caught sight of a tall woman with short black hair waving at me across the room. She stood on the other side of an enormous booking table, and she was backlit by the large windows I’d seen from the street below. Could she be Pat?

“Hi, Axelle,” she said loudly as she took her headset off and came towards me, “and welcome to New York City.” Her booming voice left me in no doubt that, yes, this was indeed Pat. She was wearing a loose-fitting grey and black striped top with three-quarter-length sleeves, black leggings and flats. A pair of dangly earrings shook under her closely cropped afro, which was short at the sides and a bit longer on top. She was in the process of giving me that fashion once-over I was starting to get used to. It’s as if most fashion people can’t talk to you until they figure out what kind of stylistic box to put you into.

“Not bad, Axelle, not bad. You’ve got that whole London, slightly boho, slightly edgy thing going… But what’s with the glasses? Nobody told me you need glasses. And do they have to be so big? I mean, I know geeky is in and all, but still…”

She said the word “glasses” as if it was some kind of disease.

How could I explain that I’d worn them so long – even though I didn’t really need them – that I didn’t feel like myself without them? They gave me the anonymity I felt I lacked – especially now that I had some fashionable clothes and a model haircut. With my giant specs on, I could move around more freely, discreetly – and that was what a detective needed, right?

“Umm…my eyes dry out quickly with contacts so my optometrist told me to wear my glasses as much as possible,” I lied.

I felt Pat’s eyes bore into me while she mulled over my excuse.

“Well, as long as they come off for castings, fittings and bookings,” she finally said. “Got it? Good. Now let me quickly introduce you to everyone and then let’s go get some lunch – we have to talk and you must be starving.”

Yes, ma’am, I thought as I followed her to the booking table.

After Pat had introduced me to all the bookers, we made a quick trip to the floor below, where I met the accounting department, signed my contract with the agency and was made aware of the labour laws in place for child performers – which is how anyone modelling under the age of eighteen in New York State is classified.

“”