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“Why do women need pockets?”

“Why that particular size and shape?” Mani’s voice is tight. “A pocket is one thing. A false lining is another thing entirely.”

“Pockets on skin-tight dresses don’t always look good. They have to be small, which means things fall out or, worse, the gown looks lumpy in the wrong places on a woman’s body. The lining I add is like,” she blows air out from between her lips, exaggerating her frustration, “Spanxthat happens to serve as a pocket. And happens to be a lot safer for the girls.”

“Safer?”

“Have youseenthose women? You could put any one of them in a brown sack and they’d make it look like ade la Renta. Add in the fact that they’re out and about all night, going God knows where, and you have perfect victims. The least I could do is make it look like they’re carrying nothing valuable.”

We know the girls are escorts. We can assume that they accept money for sex. Sensing that Mani is getting a little too hung up on the dress lining, I shift the direction of the conversation. “You mentioned that Elizabeth and Antoinette were investors in your business?”

“Sure.”

Leaning forward on the sofa, I put my cigarette out, letting the silence drag. “Miss O’Neill, how much do you sell your dresses for?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Everything. Time, materials, art markup, tax.”

“Art markup? So, you couldtheoreticallysell one dress for let’s say,” I wave my hand, “thirty thousand dollars?”

“Theoretically. Fashion is art. Art is subjective. As long as someone’s prepared to pay for it, I’ll sell it for the maximum price I think I can get.” She shimmies forward on the table, matching my confrontational posture. When she meets my eyes, she’s grinning. “I had three gowns attend the Met Gala last year. You can hardly think there’s no surcharge on that kind of publicity.”

“And as acash business, how do you distribute profit to your investors?”

Suzanne throws back her head and laughs.

Mani looks at me, bewildered.

After a long moment, she exhales. This time when she meets my gaze there is no humor in her eyes even though her bright pink lips are curved in a grin. “Carefully.”

***

“You think Suzanne O’Neillcleans their undeclared cash?” Mani asks me as we ride back to the station an hour later.

“I can’t say for sure.” The situation is definitely suspicious, but I can’t quite see the pattern yet. We’re missing something, some vital piece of information. Something that would justify the risk in their behavior.

From the backseat, Sade says, “That wouldn’t make sense. Even if she did, the girls would still have to pay taxes on it as income—if they are investors.”

“Exactly.” I think about what benefit the girls could possibly gain by laundering money through the Dressmaker. “All they’d be saving is the self-employment tax, but they’d still have to deal with capital gains. That doesn’t seem motive enough.”

“No,” Sade argues. “I’m sorry, the logic isn’t there. These girls are smart. They make heaps of money. If they were rational adults, they’d know that the risk of cleaning that extra cash is far greater than just stashing it and using it to purchase cash essentials—like Lizzie did. It’s untraceable. Cleaning it through the Dressmaker would require fudging receipts from other clients. It would leave a paper trail. And if they were cleaning cash, they’d do it through the escort agency…”

“Antoinette wouldn’t risk it.”

“So?” Mani’s voice is sharp with impatience. “What do they use her for?”

“Dresses?” Sade suggests from the back seat, pulling a grin from me.

“Sade’s right,” I say, ending the conversation. “Until we have more information, we should only make assumptions that logically lead back to the murder. We can’t let what we think we know distract us from reasonable fact.”

From the driver’s seat of the car, Mani shakes his head. “How many laws do these girls have to break before you start treating them like criminals, man?”

“Mani.” I keep my tone cold. “If you would like to spend your time chasing paper instead of murderers, let me know. I’ll recommend you for transferal from RHD to CCD.”

“Aiden,” he mimics my tone, “when are you going to stop letting your dick solve this investigation?”

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