The Fashion Police (13 page)

‘Yes.’ I tried to ignore him.

He held his arms out. ‘Well, here I am, the man of your dreams.’ He glugged his pint of beer down in one go and belched. ‘What do you think?’

Not in this lifetime. ‘No, the man of my dreams is definitely taller.’ I continued scanning the entrance and sent him silent ‘go away’ signals.

He frowned. ‘It’s because I’m short, isn’t it? I always get this. I’m huge in other departments, though.’

I leaned in a little closer. ‘Thanks for sharing, but that’s too much information.’

‘But I am. King Dong’s got nothing on me.’

‘OK. I’m glad we’re clear on that.’

He hiccupped again. ‘Where do you think I’m going wrong with my pick up line, then?’

I sat back to avoid recycled lager fumes. ‘I don’t think you should just come out with any references to King Dong, for starters. You need to have a bit of mystery about you.’

He thought about this for a moment. Then he seemed to get the message and stumbled off to hit on another poor woman who was propping up the opposite end of the bar.

After half an hour, the drunkenness in the bar had turned to rowdiness, so I wandered around to the lobby and restaurants, but Heather still didn’t appear. Had I missed her in the crowd? Had she turned up and not seen me because King Dong was blocking her view? I headed out to the car park and checked for her Beemer, but there wasn’t any sign of it. Worried, I dialed her mobile, but it went straight to voice mail.

Deciding she had missed me or stood me up to begin with, I left the hotel and did a quick drive by of the Cohens’ warehouse. There were no lights on, and the place looked locked up tight. I drove to the housing estate at the back and parked. With caution, I crept through the darkness to my familiar look-out spot.

Plonking myself down on the cold ground, I strapped on the night vision goggles and waited, my eyes adjusting to the dark as I gazed at a dim pool of light given off from the street lamps at the entrance to the industrial park.

An hour later, my eyelids heavy and my back aching, I debated whether to freeze my ass off any longer or go and defrost it in a hot bath. I checked my watch. Eleven p.m. Time to make a move. I could feel the soapy, aromatic suds calling my name. Home it was.

I arrived home to a welcoming party of Brad and Marmalade.

I eyed Brad, who was sprawled on my sofa, his head lolling back against the cushions. He stroked Marmalade, who was curled up in his lap, enjoying the attention.

‘Hey, did you pick my lock?’

‘I’m not in a position to confirm or deny that.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Stroking your pussy.’ Brad looked up with a wicked grin.

‘Ha ha. How did you get in here?’ I asked again, wondering if I was actually annoyed or excited at the prospect of Brad slipping into my apartment at whim. That ability could lead to a rather interesting pre-bedtime fantasy, or it could be extremely embarrassing. Either way, it was a pretty safe bet that Romeo wouldn’t be too impressed, and the situation could easily turn into something I might live to regret.

Brad tapped the side of his nose and handed me a glass of wine. ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

I snorted, sitting down on the edge of the sofa next to him. ‘You’re invading my personal space.’

‘This is nothing.’ His fingertip traced the side of my face. ‘If I was invading your personal space, you’d notice, believe me.’

Oh, boy! I did believe it.

‘What happened with Heather Brown?’

I sipped my wine and moved as far away from Brad as I could possibly get before I did something that was becoming too tempting to avoid. ‘She was a no-show.’

‘Strange.’ He took a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of his glass.

‘What are you really doing here?’

‘I wanted to make sure no crazy stalkers were waiting for you again.’

‘Well, that’s very nice, but my bath is calling my name, so if you don’t mind…’ I tilted my head toward the front door.

‘I could join you.’

I tutted at him and headed for the bathroom. ‘You can let yourself out.’

After a long soak in a hot bath with some lavender aromatherapy oils, I wanted to go to bed and sleep for a hundred years, but when I emerged from the steamy bathroom, Brad was still sitting on the sofa in the living room, stroking Marmalade behind the ears.

‘What are you still doing here?’ I felt my face flush and pulled my bathrobe tighter around me, painfully aware that I was naked underneath. I could do without a repeat performance of the nipple incident, thank you very much.

Brad’s face had a guarded expression on it, and I knew it meant trouble. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘Come on, Brad. Just spit it out. I’m tired.’

‘The good news is that Romeo called your mobile when you were in the bath, so at least you know he’s still alive.’

‘And what’s the bad news?’ I frowned.

‘He lost his temper a bit when I said you were in the bath.’

‘Great! Why did you answer it? Now he probably thinks something’s going on between us,’ I said through gritted teeth.

I pointed toward the door and Brad sighed. He stood up and moved toward the door, and I gave him a little push to encourage him. As I did, my bathrobe fell open. I looked down with a horrified gasp and quickly closed it again, wrapping both arms around my body in case it decided to spontaneously pop open again.

‘Don’t cover up on my account.’ He winked, and then left me standing there, hot and bothered.

I tried to call Romeo back, but either he was ignoring me, or he couldn’t pick up. ‘Damn it.’ I threw the phone on the sofa and went to bed.

****

I had a feeling of impending doom in the depths of my stomach when I woke up the next day. I couldn’t shake it off on the drive to Heather’s apartment. In fact, it got worse when I arrived at her building and discovered her car wasn’t there. Rain pelted the windscreen through the gloomy sky, and I hesitated for a while, psyching myself up. If there was no answer, I would have to break into her apartment, and I didn’t know what I might find. I liked to think I was a kick-ass, hot-shit investigator, but deep down I knew that sometimes I had a brilliant knack for screwing things up.

Heather lived in a run-down apartment complex that was in bad need of renovation. It seemed a world away from her flashy, expensive clothes and car. I wondered about that as I took the lift to the fifth floor, dressed in my navy boiler suit with ‘Mr. Fix It Maintenance’ written on the front, carrying my matching navy toolbox. There was no excuse for a lack of color co-ordination, even if you happened to be dressed in very unflattering clothes.

I walked down the corridor, found her apartment, and knocked. In the apartment next door, I could hear a couple arguing in what I thought was Japanese. The smell of fried food emanated from the walls.

I waited a few minutes and knocked again, then pressed my ear against the door. I didn’t hear a thing coming from inside, so I pulled out Brad’s open sesame tool and picked the lock. I slipped inside and stood there, waiting a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim apartment.

‘Hello?’ I called. The sound echoed around the small apartment.

No answer. I slipped inside and turned on the lights.

I figured Heather pulled in a good salary, but it looked like she didn’t spend a penny of it on her home. The entrance hall had three doors leading off it, all of which were closed. I opened the first one and found myself in a bedroom. A saggy mattress and threadbare white sheets covered an old double bed, and a battered MDF nightstand lived a solitary existence with no other little furniture friends to keep it company. A well-worn fitted closet with a cracked mirror on the front took up one side of the wall.

I rummaged around in the nightstand drawer and found a yellow sticky note with the words
Carlos Bagliero
scrawled in messy handwriting. Now I was getting somewhere. I rifled through the wardrobe and found the Fandango bag of my dreams in amongst a pile of about fifty. In one of my more shallow moments, I debated whether or not to sneak it down my boiler suit. Tempting though it was, I’d have a huge guilt trip if I did, and karma was a bitch. I dribbled a bit, lusting after it, and closed the door.

Next up was the bathroom. It was pretty basic – cheap towels, cheap toiletries. I retreated into the hall and found the kitchen.

An ashtray sat on the kitchen table, overflowing with cigarette butts. Next to it was a plate of half-eaten chicken salad on a chipped plate, and a glass of clear liquid. I picked up the glass, studying the lipstick. Dracula red, the same as on the butts. Not a good sign. I sniffed the glass and wrinkled up my nose at the hairspray aroma of neat vodka. Obviously, something had disturbed Heather’s meal. But what?

I walked on through to the living room. An ancient stereo system sat on top of a wooden rickety table. They were underneath an open window, which was blowing a draft through the room. The other windows were closed, the tatty black-out blinds drawn. I heard a weird sound through the open window, and stuck my head out, looking down to the car park.

Great, just what I needed. The bushy-haired mob goon stood by the entrance to the apartments. Obviously the muscle of the two, he was around six feet tall, with a square jaw, and he looked to be solid-pack muscle. I think he’d overdone it on the steroids. Whatever I needed to do in here, I needed to do it fast.

I hurriedly searched Heather’s computer desk. Where was her laptop? Wherever it was, that place was not here. I did find a USB flash drive, though. Woo-hoo! I had no sooner pocketed it than I heard a loud explosion. A bolt of lightning lit up the room and shards of glass flew everywhere.

I dove to the floor, catching the edge of the wooden table with my shoulder. The table jerked backwards, and the stereo unit wobbled a bit and then fell out of the window.

I heard a thud followed by a groan.

Leaping up from the floor, I dusted off the pieces of glass, trying to figure out what had happened. I realized the light was out, and guessed the light bulb had exploded. I moved to the window and peered out.   

Mr. Steroid Goon lay sprawled on the pavement below, out cold, with the stereo pretty much buried in his head. I guessed he’d have a rather large headache when he woke up and might want revenge. Since I didn’t like the sight of my own blood very much, I decided to not stick around for that to happen.

I ran out of the apartment, swung my ass down the fire exit stairs, and ended up in the car park.  

I’d just floored the Lemon up the main road when Romeo called my mobile.

‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days,’ I said, the phone cupped beneath my chin.

‘And here I thought you’d been too busy with Brad to even think about me.’

A tense silence ensued as I tried to think of what to say. I drove over a bump and dropped the phone. ‘Damn.’ I grappled around in the foot well with one hand on the steering wheel until I found the phone. ‘Sorry, dropped the phone.’

‘How convenient.’

I sighed. ‘Nothing’s going on with Brad. He’s just my boss.’ At least I thought nothing was going on. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ Although to tell the truth, I didn’t know if
I
trusted me.

Silence. And then: ‘Of course I trust you. I just don’t trust Brad. It’s no secret that he’s still in love with you.’

I couldn’t stop the astonished laugh that sprung from my lips. Brad? In love with me? No. I shook my head, and it occurred to me that I should probably steer this conversation in another direction. ‘I don’t think so, Romeo, but it doesn’t matter if he is. Where are you?’