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A date with a red dress.
As promised, the red dress was in a secure location under lock and key. That location was currently at the Donovans’ private security firm in Arlington, Virginia. Vic’s offices occupied an entire upper floor of a steel-and-glass building in the Rosslyn neighborhood, across the river from the District. He and Lacey signed in with the security guard (one of Vic’s employees) and rode the elevator up. It was quiet and most of the building occupants had emptied out. Cleaning crews were on the premises, but Vic mentioned that they were never allowed on his floor, for security reasons. The Donovans had their own personally vetted crew.
Although it was just another anonymous modern building, the large windows boasted fabulous views. From the darkened conference room Lacey could see the Washington Monument across the Potomac to the east, and to the north the spires of Georgetown University and the glittering lights of traffic crossing the Key Bridge.
She paused to enjoy the sight. Vic flicked on the lights and she turned to see him crossing the room to a set of doors.
“Don’t tell me. It’s in the closet?” she asked.
“In the closet. But not just any closet.”
Vic keyed in a combination, pressed a few fingerprints to a sensor, and the closet doors swung open and the lights inside switched on. The “closet” revealed itself as a giant steel walk-in weapon safe, specially constructed behind, and camouflaged by, a pair of regular closet doors. It doubled as a heavily armed safe room, complete with its own HVAC, cots, lockers, a kitchenette, and secure communications to the outside world. There was even a tiny bathroom with a toilet and shower. Though it had never been used as a safe room, Vic said, the structure made an impressive statement to prospective clients. The Donovans had sold more than one replica of their safe room.
Vic beckoned Lacey inside. There hung the flashy crimson costume, surrounded by weapons, handguns, rifles, ammunition, and emergency equipment of all kinds. Lacey started to laugh.
“Well, the dress certainly looks safe, hanging there with its own armed guard.”
“Best I could do on short notice.”
“Have I ever told you I love you?”
“Recently? Let me think.”
She grabbed hold of him and kissed him. “I love you, Vic Donovan.”
“You want to get frisky in front of that thing? I hear it has a mind of its own.”
“See, you are a smarty pants. And I don’t believe it’s actually sentient.”
Vic gathered the crimson gown in one arm and hung it in the doorway so she could see it lit from both sides. It was the first time she had gotten a really good look at Death’s Red Dress.
The dress was just material and thread, a lot of it, and a lot of care had gone into it. And yet there was something more to it. The long skirt flowed in layers upon layers of half a dozen fabrics, tulle and taffeta and silk, satin and lace and velvet, all of them in slightly different tones and textures of red, ruby, claret, crimson and more, giving it depth and mystery. Lacey realized there must have been a dozen or more layers.
But what does it tell me? What made it so amazing in the Kinetic show?
“Vic, darling, you wouldn’t happen to have something like a black light on hand?”
“Part of the arsenal. And you need that, why?”
“Theatrical smoke and mirrors, maybe. I see some kind of residue or something on this dress that’s not very clear in regular room light.”
“As long as it’s not a bloodstain. I don’t do bloodstains on dates. Generally.” Vic returned bearing a forensic flashlight with a black light bulb. He handed it her. The flashlight was heavy and cool to the touch.
She grinned with delight. “You have the greatest toys.”
“I aim to please. And they’re tools, not toys. Okay, they’re toys too. What are we looking for, if it isn’t blood?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Right. Or maybe something?”
“I hope so. I just don’t know what it might be.”
Vic turned off the lights and she turned on the flashlight, revealing the hidden effect the costume designer had devised.
“Skulls,” Vic said.
“Skulls on skulls on skulls. Small skulls intertwined to make larger skulls.” She stepped closer. “Look at that.”
“Black light skulls.” Vic breathed out heavily. “Theatre people are creepy. I was prepared for bloodstains. Blood is routine. This is just weird.”
“Remember, it’s only a costume. They must have had turned on black lights on stage to make these pop at the right moment.”
Lacey was glad she hadn’t set her heart on owning this garment. Would LaToya still want to wear it, if she could see it now? Lacey stepped back and gazed at it. The costume was even more dramatic from farther away. Up close, she could see the brush strokes of whatever it was that created the illusion of skulls. Some kind of black light paint, she supposed. For the audience, the effect must have been magical and shocking.
Behind her, she heard Vic taking photographs, with an ultraviolet flash on one of his big Nikon DSLRs. When he was finished, he switched the overhead lights back on. Lacey moved the dress to the conference table, laying it flat.
“Looks pretty harmless now, Vic.”
“Of course it is. It’s just a dress, right, not a secret weapon?”
“As far as I know. Of course it was designed by a Russian.”
“Uh huh. Like Kepelov?”
“I hope not.”
“Yeah. Me too. I mean, he seems to be a good guy, but— Are we finished with this thing?”
“Not quite.” She fluttered her hands over it, delicately touching it here and there, noting the different finishes and feels of the various luxurious fabrics. The dress was expertly made, but it was beginning to show some wear from so many borrowers. On the inside, the hem appeared to have been resewn in several places. Small tight knots were visible from the repairs.
She leaned in and examined it carefully. The hem was weighted to keep it from flying up when the wearer whirled and spun. Seamstresses sometimes employed old-fashioned lead curtain weights to make a garment hang just right, or such things as coins and metal buttons. Coco Chanel famously sewed gold chains into her jacket hems so they would hang perfectly. Lacey was curious about what this costumer had used.
“Vic, do have a small pair of scissors handy?”
He raised a dark eyebrow at her. “You plan to cut the dress open? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I just want to open a few little stitches and take a peek inside the hem.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“Killed the cat. Would a pocket knife do?”
She smiled. “You want to do it yourself, don’t you?”
“I want to feel useful, and in the field of Swiss Army knives, I am an expert. First, however, let’s take a few more photos. You want the hem, right?”
“And these little knots, if we can get them. There are weights of some kind sewn in the hem. You want to do it? Your cameras are better than mine.”
“Here, you know what you’re looking for.” Vic’s office was fully stocked with every kind of camera used in surveillance. He handed her the Nikon DSLR he’d been using and she focused on the hem, the knots and the different threads and styles of stitches. When she was done photographing it, Vic pulled out his Swiss Army knife and flipped open the scissors. Lacey showed him which threads to snip. She’d worry about resewing the thing later. And what to tell LaToya.
“Very nice. Now do this one.”
“I do tailoring and alterations too, you know.”
Lacey reached inside the folded material of the hem and pulled a weight out of the little pocket Vic had snipped open. It was round like a coin, but not a coin she recognized. It wasn’t a button or a washer or a lead curtain weight. It looked like some kind of gold and silver medal.
“Who is this guy? Is this Lenin’s profile?” She held it up to the light.
“Lenin? You’re kidding.” Vic moved closer. “Let me see. Yup. Looks like Lenin. With a red star. And look, a hammer and sickle.”
To make sure, they googled Vladimir Lenin on the conference room laptop. It was him: Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, known as Lenin. This appeared to be one of the innumerable medals handed out, apparently like popcorn, as service medals to Soviet civilians and military personnel in the old USSR.
“Pretty odd thing to hide away in a dress,” she said.
“Well, darling, that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“As if.” She scowled. She set the Lenin medal down next to the pocket from which it came and shot more photos. She felt the rest of the hem. There was more than one medal, but she left the rest of them in place for the moment.
“What do you think?” Vic asked. “EFP-wise?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Lacey shook her head. “The dress was made by a Russian designer, at a theatre run by Russian émigrés, so that fits. But if someone was proud of these Lenin medals, or even considered them a curiosity, wouldn’t they be on display or something? Or did they have so many of them laying around they could just use them as weights?”
“You remember what Churchill said about Russia?” Vic asked her. “He called Russia a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”
“Inside a red dress,” she added.
Until this moment, Lacey hadn’t realized how tired she was. She slumped into a chair and propped her head on her hands.
“What’s our next move, Lace? Besides my place.”
“And besides falling asleep? I need to find out more about this dress. And these medals. Soviet medals, right? Who do we know who might know something about these?”
“Oh no.” Vic groaned. His eyes were deep green in this light. His dark eyebrows knit together. “Kepelov? You want to talk to Kepelov? Voluntarily?”
“We may have a Russian doll of a mystery here,” Lacey said.
Gregor Kepelov once told Lacey a mystery was like a set of matryoshkas, Russian nesting dolls. Each doll opened to reveal another doll inside, and another and another, each doll becoming smaller and smaller. The key to a mystery, he said, was like the smallest doll, perhaps the size of an acorn, usually something unexpected and overlooked.
Kepelov had once been in the Russian intelligence services. Now he worked as a freelancer within the D. C. security world, sometimes crossing paths with Vic—and with Lacey. They had worked together, once or twice. Kepelov was always on the hunt for artifacts he could sell to wealthy collectors in Russia. On anything involving his former country’s artifacts, he was an expert. But there was also a danger the ex-spy might be tempted to interfere.
“Gregor can be exhausting, sweetheart. And it’s getting late.”
“I know. But Kepelov is the only Russian I know. Except for Yuri Volkov at Kinetic, and I don’t think he likes me. And then there is Kepelov’s sister, Olga. I suspect she’s got more spook history than we know. But—”
“Tonight?”
“It would get it out of the way.” Lacey paused. “Gregor may not want to come here anyway. After last time.”
The last time Gregor Kepelov had visited Vic’s offices he’d been shot. The ex-spy was wearing a bulletproof vest, fortunately, but it was a terrifying assassination attempt.
“That would be a shame. How about tomorrow?”
“Better tonight, Vic. He’d be hurt if we didn’t ask him.” Lacey was half kidding. Their eyes met.
“Me too. Do you want to call him, or shall I?”
They flipped the Lenin medal. Vic called heads and Lacey lost. As she picked up her phone, it lit up: It was Gregor Kepelov, calling her.
“This is weird, Kepelov,” Lacey said in greeting. It’s him, she mouthed at Vic. Vic’s eyes went wide. “I was just about to phone you.”
“Lacey Smithsonian. It is late, but Marie told me to call you,” Kepelov said quietly. “Now you tell me why.”
“She didn’t fill you in?” Lacey asked.
“She says she does not know. Only that you have some important question.”
“Um, yes. I do. Would you mind coming to Vic’s office? I know it’s late. If you’d rather not, I understand. Because of last time.”
“What are you saying? Last time was nothing. Bullets bounce off Gregor Kepelov.”
“I’m sure Marie doesn’t feel that way.”
He grunted. “What is this problem?”
“It’s a kind of a matryoshka.”
The unexpected sound of Kepelov’s laughter surprised her. “Ah. A mystery. And you need Gregor Kepelov’s help. I will come.” Lacey heard animated chatter in the background. Kepelov came back on the line. “I will bring Marie. And Olga. She insists. It will be a party. Do you have vodka? Vodka is necessary. For luck. Not to worry, I will bring. See you soon.” He clicked off.
Lacey looked at Vic. In her worst Russian accent she intoned, “Night is young! Commander Kepelov says must have vodka! Not to worry, he will bring!”
Vic shook his head, laughing. He locked the safe room and shut the outer closet doors, leaving the scarlet suspect lying on the table. Lacey replaced the Lenin medal in its original pocket in the gown’s hem. The red dress looked as innocent as the day she had first seen it, which, she reflected, was not very.
And as far as I’m concerned, Lacey thought, Vladimir Lenin has no business hiding in any woman’s skirts.
