by Sibel Hodge
‘Yes. Dad bought an apartment, which is in the company name, and I stay there when I’m in the UK.’ She scribbled on a napkin. ‘That’s the address.’
I took the napkin and looked at the address, and then pulled the Fandango file out of my bag to check it against the information I had. It was a match. Fandango had insured that apartment along with his home and business addresses. ‘If you’re psychic, what’s going to happen to me tomorrow?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘OK, what are the winning lottery numbers?’
Tia shot me a slightly aggrieved look. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘So how does it work?’
‘I just get flashes of things – feelings and stuff. I think Dad’s being held in an Italian restaurant somewhere.’
I had just taken a swig of coffee, and I nearly spurted it out at her words. ‘What?’
‘I’m getting some kind of connection with pasta,’ she said.
‘Pasta?’ I raised a skeptical eyebrow. She shrugged again.
‘I know, it sounds completely kooky, but that’s what I’m getting.’
‘Even if you’re right, that’s got to narrow it down to about a gazillion restaurants in the world.’
Her eyes welled up again and I sighed.
I slid a stack of napkins toward her. ‘Let’s start somewhere else. Do you know if he had any enemies?’
She wiped her eyes and shook her head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘How about any business problems or arguments with any of his staff?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I thought for a moment and then plowed ahead. Why not? I had to ask it. ‘Was he involved in anything…illegal?’
A guarded look came over her face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, anything to do with the mob, for example?’
She gasped. ‘Are you talking about the mafia?’ She began shredding the napkins.
‘Yes.’ I sank back in the chair, observing her carefully.
She blinked at me, astonished. ‘No! Dad would never do anything like that.’
‘Is there a Mrs. Fandango?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well, if anything has happened to him, I’m just trying to establish who stands to inherit his vast fortune.’
She dabbed at her eyes with a tiny morsel of shredded tissue. ‘That would be me.’
‘Do you know where he kept his will?’
‘Probably in the office safe, at his house.’
‘Do you know the name of his lawyer?’
She sniffled. ‘No…oh, wait a minute. I think the name sounded a bit like a cake.’ She pursed her lips together and stared into space for a moment. ‘No, sorry. I can’t remember.’ She patted her eyes and looked down at the shredded remains of her paper napkin like she couldn’t remember doing it.
‘Well, can you think of anything else that might help?’
She thought long and hard, finally giving me a firm shake of her head.
I paid the bill and ducked out of Starbucks while Tia rearranged her make-up in the restroom, just in case she decided to follow me. Either she really didn’t know anything and was genuinely upset, or she was a good actress. I hadn’t made up my mind yet. For all I knew, she might not even be Fandango’s daughter. I’d know more after I made a few phone calls.
****
It was late afternoon when I arrived back at the old flour mill. The car park was empty, and the building looked unoccupied. From my tour with Fandango, I knew all the security codes for the keypad entry system, so after checking to make sure the coast was clear, I let myself in.
My first stop was Fandango’s office. I sat at his desk, switched on his computer, and had started rifling through the papers on the desk when I heard a door slam somewhere outside. I froze for a second in disbelief when I heard the familiar clack of heels on the floor outside the office. No doubt, they were coming my way. My heart flip-flopped around in my chest as I looked for somewhere to hide. The desk was made of glass, so, unless I could make myself invisible, hiding underneath it would be a dead giveaway.
Crappy-doo-dah! I was going to get busted. I frantically scanned the room, hoping for a big black hole to suddenly open up and swallow me. Two seconds later, it still hadn’t, and I heard the beeps of the keypad lock on the other side of the door.
I launched myself behind the silver sofa as the door clicked and swung open. I could hear my breath rushing in and out and, as the heel-wearer came into the office, I caught a whiff of the now familiar, otherwise unusual perfume. It was the same stuff I’d smelled earlier in the day.
Shooting up from behind the couch, I came face to face with Tia.
‘Aagh!’ she screeched, rearing back in surprise.
Three thoughts ignited in my brain. One, she was here to batter me to death with the furry rodent bag. Two, she was trying to cover her tracks by getting rid of evidence, or three, she was doing the same as me – trying to find the missing fashion designer.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I hissed.
‘Looking for a clue,’ she hissed back.
‘I thought I told you not to follow me!’
She looked like she was about to cry any second. I felt bad for even suspecting her of wanting to do me harm. I threw my hands up in the air in a hopeless gesture. ‘Well, seeing as you’re here, you can stand guard.’ I sat back down at Fandango’s desk and tapped away on the keyboard, looking on his computer for anything that said clue in big, bold letters on it.
‘I can help you look.’ She picked something up off the desk. ‘What about this?’
I glanced over at what she held in her hand. ‘It’s a paperweight, and that is exactly the reason you can’t help me look. Just out of interest, what were you studying in the States?’
‘Neurosurgery.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Whoa, scary!
She did a snorty little giggle that sounded like a hyena with a blocked nose. ‘Yes, of course I’m kidding.’
I breathed a mental sigh of relief for all the poor brains in the world. ‘Shh!’ I pressed my forefinger against my lips.
‘Sorry. I was studying fashion, of course,’ she whispered.
I screwed up my eyes and frowned at the computer screen. ‘Damn, all his files have been wiped. There’s nothing on here.’ I turned it off and rummaged around in his desk. The only thing I could find was a file tucked right at the back that contained some papers that looked a lot like financial spreadsheets. I stuffed it in my rucksack and moved on to Heather’s desk.
Her laptop was nowhere to be seen. I went through the desk from top to bottom, and the only thing I found that was of any interest was a piece of paper taped to the bottom of her top drawer. It had the words CB £5 Million scribbled on it. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ I showed it to Tia.
‘No.’
I pocketed the note, and we checked out the other offices, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, so we called it a day.
‘You gave me your number, Tia. I’ll let you know if I find anything. Promise me you won’t follow me any more,’ I said as we got in our vehicles.
‘OK.’ She gave me an unconvincing smile, and I just knew I’d be seeing more of her before I was ready to.
7
I put my foot down on the way home, dying for food. I was so hungry that I started fantasizing about garlic bread with cheese, roasted chicken, jacket potatoes smothered in butter, boiled broccoli and cabbage – ew! Where did the broccoli and cabbage come from? I stopped thinking about food when I reached that point and started thinking about the note I’d found.
What could the letters CB mean? Someone’s initials? Possibly, but that would only narrow it down to a gazillion people of the population. A password for something? Too short. The name of a boat? Unlikely. A company? Maybe. I figured I would come up with something once I got some food in me. I always thought better on a full stomach.
As soon as I flung open my apar
tment door, my appetite vanished.
The living room that Romeo had only just tidied was a complete wreck. Magazines were piled in a messy heap on the floor, the cushions had been ripped from their covers and scattered around the living room, and the contents of my toolbox had been emptied onto the dining table. Added to that, my yucca was now yellow and dead-looking. I didn’t know if it had died of fright, or because I’d still forgotten to water it.
My guts churned around on a spin cycle as I marched into my bedroom. My shoes looked like they’d been flung around the room by a desperate bargain hunter at a jumble sale. The dresser drawers hung open, all the contents chucked onto the bed. I seriously hoped whoever had broken in hadn’t been rifling through my knicker drawer, as well. Oh, no. God, please not the kicker drawer. I nearly passed out with embarrassment as I had visions of sweaty, wart-covered thugs pawing through my lacy thongs and cutie knickers with their chubby little fingers – sniffing them, even. I felt light-headed and weak at the very thought.
I sank down onto the bed, not knowing whether to scream or burst into tears. I was heading toward the tears when I suddenly remembered Marmalade.
I jumped to my feet. Where was he? Had he been cat-napped? I’d almost given up hope when I discovered him snuggled up in the bathroom under a pile of towels, which had been dumped on the floor. I gave Marmalade a big cuddle and then succumbed to the tears.
‘Who was it?’ I asked Marmalade, burrowing my chin into his fur.
Marmalade purred, but didn’t give me any useful information to go on, so I called Romeo.
I paced the five steps up and down the living room, gave an almighty sniff, and blinked back more tears as I listened to the phone ringing incessantly on the other end of the line. ‘Pick up, pick up!’
He didn’t.
Where the hell was he, and why wasn’t he returning my calls? I snapped the phone shut and threw it on the floor. An instant later, I picked it up and called Brad.
‘Don’t you dare say “speak”,’ I announced in a voice slightly louder than I had anticipated, which I followed up with a coughing sniffle.
‘Foxy, what’s up? Are you OK?’
‘No, I’m not OK, Brad. Someone’s broken into my apartment.’ I increased my pacing tempo to a neurotic level.
‘Have you checked to see whether or not they’re still there?’
‘They’ve gone.’ I gnawed on my thumbnail as my eyes flitted around the room like a mad woman’s, not lighting on any one thing for more than a split second.
‘Are you going to call the police?’ Brad asked, the concern in his voice going a long way to make me feel better.
‘No. I don’t think anything’s been stolen. It’s just a mess. It looks like they were searching for something.’
He paused for a moment before he asked the obvious. ‘What were they looking for?’
‘I don’t know.’ I racked my brain. ‘First my car, and now my apartment. It’s got to have something to do with the Fandango case.’
‘Look, I don’t want you staying there on your own in case they come back. Get over to my house. You can stay in my guest room.’ There was silence on both ends of the line as we both thought about his offer.
‘OK. But don’t get any funny ideas,’ I warned him.
He laughed. ‘Foxy, the day I don’t get any funny ideas, I’ll be dead.’
****
Brad’s barn conversion was one hundred percent male. The downstairs living space was a large, open great room, which featured a stunning beamed ceiling and tall windows. This was a minimalist interior with a capital M. There were no personal knick-knacks at all, and there was very little furniture, which would have turned the empty expanse into a cozy living space. It was spotless, but somehow I couldn’t imagine Brad dressed in a frilly apron with a can of furniture polish in one had and a duster in the other. The only furniture was a black leather sofa and matching armchair, and a humungous flat-screen TV on one wall. This area led into the kitchen, which was where we sat, side by side, at Brad’s black granite breakfast bar, eating Chinese take away and sipping red wine. Actually, my sipping had turned into gulping after the first glass, and it had already gone to my head, but I didn’t care. That’s what stress did to you, right?
‘You still haven’t got any stuff in this place. Why not?’ I glanced around the kitchen and into the living area as Marmalade wound around my feet, begging for scraps. ‘It’s cold, sterile almost.’
‘I’ve got stuff. I’ve got a stove, a sofa, a–’
‘I mean stuff stuff. Things that prove someone actually lives here, and it’s not just a show house. Why haven’t you got any photos or personal stuff, or any clutter? That’s so not normal.’ I swirled my wine around thoughtfully.
Brad shrugged and sat back, scratching Marmalade’s head as he watched me. ‘I don’t need it. “Stuff” just complicates things.’
‘I like stuff. Stuff is good. Why haven’t you got any pictures of that Australian guy?’
‘What Australian guy?’
‘The one who adopted you from the orphanage.’
‘He wasn’t Australian. He was Aborigine.’
‘OK, Aborigine. If he took you on walkabout when you were a kid and taught you all you know about survival techniques, he must have been a big part of your life, so why haven’t you got any pictures of him?’
‘People aren’t defined by their possessions.’
I gave him a wry smile. ‘Oh, yeah, what are they defined by then?
‘Their actions.’
I probably couldn’t argue with that point, so I gave up. In between mouthfuls of prawn Chow Mein and barbequed spare ribs, I told Brad about Tia, the note, and the files I’d found at Fandango’s.
‘Why isn’t Tia mentioned as a beneficiary on Fandango’s insurance policy?’ I said. ‘It just states the beneficiary as “any legal heir”.’
‘When Fandango took out the policy, we were having a lot of trouble with the receptionist who was doing the administrative duties. I can only assume that it must’ve been an administrative error on our part that was never followed up.’ He twirled his noodles expertly around his chopsticks and took a bite. ‘So, what’s Tia like? Do you think she’s got anything to do with this?’
‘I’m not sure yet. My instinct tells me no, but I don’t know enough yet to be sure.’ I put down my spoon and fork and attempted to copy Brad with the chopsticks, which really wasn’t going to happen after so much wine.
‘Well, the files can wait until tomorrow. You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you just relax tonight?’ Brad suggested as he gazed at me over the rim of his wine glass, practically oozing pheromones.
I carried on trying to scrape up the noodles, but every time I got the chopsticks close to my mouth, they slipped off and back onto the plate. I gave up, picking up my fork again instead. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Mr. Workaholic, Tyrant-Boss Brad?’
His mouth moved in something that could’ve passed for a grin. Then again, it could’ve been a mouth-twitch, too.
‘The note in Heather’s desk said CB £5 million. Five million pounds is a lot of money. Maybe CB, whoever he is, paid Fandango to disappear for some reason, or paid Heather the Ice Queen to develop a case of amnesia, so he could run off with Fandango’s fashion collection.’ I drained my glass and poured another. ‘And what’s the mob’s involvement in this? I doubt if there’s much call for fencing a stolen fashion collection in the mafia business these days, unless it includes rhinestone-encrusted concrete boots.’
Brad rested his elbows on the breakfast bar, his muscled shoulders straining against the perfectly tailored shirt. ‘So what have you got that they want?’ He gave me a slow, lingering look up and down. ‘Apart from the obvious.’
‘Hey! No funny business.’ I gave him a playful slap on the arm. ‘I’ve got no idea what they could be after. Maybe it will all become miraculously clear when I go through the spreadsheets I found.’
‘Where’s Romeo tonight?’ A gli
nt of amusement danced in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t he stay with you?’
‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him for days. I wanted to tell him what was going on at the Cohens’ warehouse, too, but he hasn’t rung me back.’
‘Well, that’s your call. Exporting a bunch of stolen cars isn’t my concern, unless I’ve insured them. I’m only concerned about a possible arson payout on the warehouse.’ He reached over and twirled a stray wave of my hair around his fingers. ‘So, where is he, then – since he isn’t with you when you need him?’
I gulped as my pulse disco-danced around in my body. This was not good. Pulling my hair free, I shot off my chair, picked up the plates, and deposited them in the dishwasher. When I finished, I leaned against it, staying well out of finger-twirling range.
‘Maybe he’s tied up, doing this secret operation with Janice Skipper,’ Brad said.
My spine turned to a block of ice at the mention of her name. I threw a dish cloth at him, which hit him on the head and then slid to the floor.
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Just think, if you hadn’t shot her in the ass, you wouldn’t have been thrown off the force, and maybe you’d be working with Romeo tonight instead of her. Not that I’m complaining, of course. It means you’re here with me instead.’
‘It was an accident – kind of – and anyway, I didn’t get thrown off the force. I resigned.’
‘I thought it was more a case of resign or get fired.’ He stood up and strolled toward me. ‘And how do you kind of accidentally shoot your boss?’
I avoided his gaze and took a bigger swig of wine. ‘It was her fault. She shouldn’t have pissed me off.’
Brad leaned his weight against me, pinning me in between the dishwasher and his hard thighs.
On second thought, maybe that wasn’t his thighs.
‘What will you do to me if I piss you off?’ He cupped my chin in his hand and locked his gaze on mine.
Uh-oh! Hot flush coming up. My skin tingled and I worried that it might actually be on fire. Why did he have to be so heart-stoppingly gorgeous?
Then he brushed his lips against mine, and the next thing I knew, we ended up in a full-blown, pretty damned sexy kiss, with lots of tongue action. It was dangerously sexy, in fact. He plunged his hands into my hair, and I could feel his heart beating against mine. I felt as though I was drinking him in – his heart seemed to be beating inside of mine, not outside. Everything else in the room seemed to vanish. It was just me and Brad, the kiss and one heartbeat.