“My friend Guillermo is a jeweller,” André said, walking in with an old-school sketch pad tucked under his arm. “Why do we need a jeweller?”
I looked at Jez, and Jez looked at me.
“Is Guillermo in San Francisco?” I asked.
“He has a workshop and store three blocks from North of Market.”
“How do you feel about another ride in the helicopter?”
He passed a hand over his brow, always so dramatic. “A hardship, darling, but one I’m willing to tolerate for you.”
Antonella felt right, but Margaret had also felt right, and look what happened there. André had been dispatched to San Francisco with Nolan’s rock in his purse and Storm in the pilot’s seat. Jez, Rusty, and Nolan were trekking back up the hill with Juno to see what other rocks they could find, and Erin was still looking at shoe prints. The FBI database for treads and tyres didn’t work the same way as AFIS—you couldn’t feed in a footprint and wait for it to spit out a match. Rather, it served up a selection of possibles, and the matching was done by eye.
After the diversion with Margaret, we didn’t want to write off any of the other leads prematurely, so Ari was following up on Lisanne, Wyatt, and Marielle while I cursed and seethed and trolled through Antonella Cranston’s emails. I didn’t have access to all of Everett’s accounts yet, but I would soon.
Antonella’s life revolved around the horses, an apparent shopping addiction, socialising-slash-gossip, and a never-ending quest to avoid aging. Creams, lotions, injections, a nip and tuck here and there… She had a pathological hatred of wrinkles. Me? I didn’t mind the idea of frown lines because at least I wouldn’t look twelve anymore. But what didn’t I find? Any mention of diamonds, outside of her jewellery purchases from an upscale boutique in Beverly Hills.
Gah.
Not another wild-fucking-goose chase…
I got up to fetch another coffee and smacked headlong into Erin as she skidded sideways into the library, breathless. She grabbed me before I fell on my ass.
“Hey, slow down.”
“I found them! Well, I’m like eighty percent sure anyway.”
“Are you talking about the boots?”
“They cost eighteen hundred bucks. Who the heck spends eighteen hundred bucks on boots?”
“Millionaires and fashion victims who enjoy credit card debt?”
“They’re hiking boots by Ishmael. I didn’t even know Ishmael made hiking boots. I thought he just made weird dresses out of food and got corpses to model them.”
“Those were two different things. The idiots who wore the food dresses were very much alive.”
Who could forget the sight of dumbass pop star Luna Maara wearing a dress made from cotton candy? And then not wearing it after a prankster threw a bucket of water over her. The video of her sticky and dripping in her underwear had gone viral, like pretty much every other stupid thing she did.
“Okay, so the hiking boots are actually kinda cute, as long as you’re not scared of snakes. If they cost fifty bucks, I might even buy them. They’re Italian leather with hand-embroidered cobras, available in two colours, and the laces have actual gold bits at the ends.”
Hmm… Maybe I could buy a pair for Tulsa as a joke? Her ophidiophobia would love them.
“Can you send me the link?”
“Yup, I already did—it should be on that app thingy. The Cranstons are millionaires, right?”
“They are.”
I forgot about the coffee as I checked out Ishmael’s website. The boots were hideous, and I quickly sent a message to Chase asking him to procure a pair in Tulsa’s size for this year’s Secret Santa. Of course, I’d have to make sure I picked her, but that shouldn’t be too difficult to rig.
The style was called “Bite Me,” and when I searched in Antonella’s emails, I found a purchase receipt for a tan pair in a size seven, dated five months ago.
Got her.
“Nice work. Hey, you want me to buy you a pair of fancy boots? Call it a bonus.”
Erin screwed up her face. “Thanks for the offer and all, but I’d rather have a pair of Chucks.”
