“In abook,” I mumble for his ears only. He ignores me.
“It’s better this way,” Lissa says. “We are … not on the best of terms with the police, ever since—”
“Thank you, Lissa, that’s quite enough,” Lesley rushes. “The point is, we don’tneedthe police. All they do is shuffle aroundeating biscuits and looking at crime scenes with a shrug and adunnobefore they file it away to be forgotten. But us?Wedo this for the love of it. From our souls’ primordial cry to fight for a better world. And because rich people need hobbies. But the point is: We’re free from the shackles of the bureaucracy. These killers are dancing round like marionettes, and we have a chance to follow them straight to the puppet master. We can make things right, cutting through the jungle of murder with the machete ofjustice.” This, he delivers with immense feeling and an enthusiastic approximation of chopping through thicket.
I have to admit, it is alittleinspiring.
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the plan?”
“Simple,” says Lesley. “You pose as a tourist at the scene of the crime and get in his pedicab. Then, you know, do your thing. Restrain him, call us, and we’ll take him to the Fake House for interrogation.”
“The Fake House?” I ask.
Lesley snorts. “What, did you think I’d bring serial killers into myactualhome? Please. With my luck, they’d get one whiff of my aesthetic and realize I’m Banksy.”
“You’re not Banksy,” Grant says.
“It’s a decoy house in Hammersmith,” Lissa continues, more helpfully. “Just for interrogation and holding suspects. More secure. Less personal.”
“And it’s where we’re going to crack Mr. Page and bring down this whole operation,” says Lesley. “All you have to do is … whatever it is you do.” He wiggles his fingers at us nonchalantly, as if it’s all very simple. As if nabbing a killer isn’t something we’ve done exactly once, by accident, with fatal results.
“So, what do we have for gear?” Grant asks. “Hidden earpieces? GPS trackers? Handcuffs, I assume?”
“I’ll do you one better: iPhones, a whiteboard, and a party pack of zip ties.”
I stifle a bitter laugh. Poor Grant is about to get a crash course from the Anna Matthews school of technology. Frankly, I’m surprised even Facebook is involved here; with that alone, Anna’s probably congratulating herself for her technical prowess and calling it a day.
Lesley throws up his hands. “Why complicate things? All that high-tech rubbish is police nonsense. And every time a hidden earpiece is involved, there’s some hilarious misunderstanding about what you’re meant to repeat, and the next thing you know, you’re trying to order a sandwich from a serial killer or something. We don’t have time for that. Besides, I’m notsucha Luddite. I even do texting.”
Grant lets out a long breath and wrings his hands, and it occurs to me that at least one of us is going to have to hold it together.
“We’ll be fine,” I force out, though I’m not sure I’m convincing anyone.
Lesley punches the air and flops back into his chair. “That’s the spirit. Roxie with Moxie, Grant the Great, and the Pedicab—” He screws up his face in thought. “He needs a cheeky little nickname. They always have cheeky little nicknames. Dewey Decimal Demon, New Money Mangler, so on.”
“New Money …?”
“Mangler,” he almost growls. “Worst of them all, takes snobbery to new heights. Lurks wherever old money windbags gather and targets anyone who doesn’t belong. I’ve been after him for years. Catch him for me, Roxie Balboa, and you’ll be my best friend and the new owner of my Jag.” He frowns and sinks farther into his chair, rubbing his chin. “Pedicab, Pedicab, Pedicab …”
“Pulverizer,” sighs Grant, as if he didn’t mean to speak but couldn’t resist the chance to show off his vocabulary.
Lesley snaps his fingers. “The Pedicab Pulverizer. Whammo.Grant, I like your style.” He quickly scans Grant’s rumpled shirt-and-sweater combo and adds, “Figuratively speaking.”
A gasp bursts from Lissa and she jumps to her feet. “That reminds me. We need to get going!”
I ask her where, and she puts a solemn hand to her heart.
“The happiest place on earth.”
• • •
I DON’T KNOWif I’d call Harrods the happiest place on earth, but it certainly is something. It’s like if Disney World and Macy’s had a very expensive baby. It’s all lavish carved pillars and art nouveau mosaics and money, money, money.
It also makes for a very practical field trip for us. If I were a millionaire looking to outfit two first-time spies for any number of unforeseeable circumstances, this is exactly where I’d take them. Need to go incognito in a Vegas showgirl getup? You’ll find it here. Need a solid-gold knife set? That too. Grass-fed salmon for an undercover dinner party? Food hall, ground floor.
So far, it’s been a whirlwind through the clothing departments. Lissa, who I’m beginning to suspect is the result of Anna Matthews overdosing on cold brew, is treating this like a high-budget episode ofSupermarket Sweep. She’s gotten us everything we could possibly need and then some: Jeans and T-shirts for keeping it casual, formalwear for keeping it fancy. Sneakers for running. Wellies for running in the rain. Sweaters and swimsuits and bow ties and stilettos with heels that could crack marble.
She’s now off gathering accessories, leaving us to try on the mountains of clothing we’ve accumulated. It’s Grant’s turn, and judging by the grumbling coming from his fitting room, he’s having severe separation anxiety from his professorial look.
