The Fashion Police (19 page)

I’m not sure how long I stood there, listening to the sound of my heart thumping around in my chest. Eventually, I poured us another glass of wine. OK, maybe another glass wasn’t such a good idea under the circumstances, but I needed something to distract me. I went back to the living room and handed Brad a glass, then sat on the floor, knees bent, clutching my arms around them. Brad just watched me without saying anything.

I swallowed hard and took a desperate stab at sounding normal. ‘Samantha James is hiding something.’ It was my turn to change the subject now.

‘You said it yourself – everybody’s hiding something. Even you.’

What did he mean? How did he even
know
if I was hiding something anymore? I wasn’t the same person now that I was two years ago, and Brad wasn’t qualified anymore to know me so well.

I conveniently ignored his last comment and carried on. ‘She lied to me about not having any contact with Fandango for nineteen and a half years. I know, because I found a rhinestone from his fashion collection in her warehouse.’

‘Are you going to go back and question her?’

‘I’d like to get some more information first. I also found out that Callum Bates is working for Lennie and Lonnie Cohen. It sounds like they’re getting ready to ship a batch of stolen vehicles out of the country this week. If they’re going to torch the warehouse, I’m betting it will be after they’ve got rid of the goods.’

‘Good work, Foxy.’ He winked at me over the rim of his glass. ‘You can get your reward now for a job well done.’

I gulped. Oh, God, what kind of reward did he have in mind?

‘Don’t look so worried. Your reward is a nice roasted chicken dinner.’ As he spoke, a timer went off in the kitchen.

Phew! Saved by the chicken.

17

Luckily, throbbing body parts didn’t keep me awake that night. Mine or Brad’s – although I was quite sure that Brad would’ve liked the idea. However, he had left shortly after we consumed our dinner. Random thoughts deep in my subconscious kept me awake, instead. There was just something about the disappearance of the fashion collection. Something about it kept niggling away at me. I woke up early with an idea burning in my brain.

I crawled out of bed and toed through the discarded clothing piled up on the floor. I peered in the closet, only to discover that a clothes-stealing troglodyte had been wearing all my clothes and failing to return them, washed and ironed. All I had left in the closet were my girly clothes, which were far too nice and too expensive to wear while chasing criminals. I dug around a little more and finally discovered a pair of camouflage combat trousers and a sweatshirt in my laundry basket that appeared to be recyclable.

I didn’t have time for breakfast, so I gulped a glass of orange juice and grabbed a cold baked potato to eat in the car. My foot still felt a bit tender when I stuffed it into my stand-by pair of sneakers, which I kept in the back of the cupboard for just such an occasion. That proved the theory I’d had for a number of years now: a girl can never have enough pairs of shoes.

My first stop was Heather’s apartment. As I pulled into the communal parking lot, I noticed that her BMW was still parked in the same spot. A black and white cat rubbed himself against the tires in ecstasy, like he’d been snorting catnip. I took the stairs to her apartment, and rapped my knuckles gently on her door. As I did this, the door swung open a couple of inches. Either I had magic, door opening knuckles, or the mob goons had left it unsecured. My second guess seemed like the most plausible. I suspected they weren’t particularly security-conscious guys.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open all the way. Everything seemed exactly as I’d left it when I ran out on Saturday, minus the goons. I wandered through the rooms with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Heather still hadn’t returned.

Next up, I went by Fandango’s office, just in case Heather had been mysteriously transported there in some kind of weird Star Trekky time warp. The only living thing that greeted me was a solitary sparrow, pecking about on the ground. The doors were still locked. I banged on them a couple of times just in case. While I waited, I peered through the leopard skin curtains, but the place was as deserted as the Mary Celeste.

I said goodbye to the sparrow and made my way to Tia’s apartment.

‘Hi.’ Tia’s face lit up when she saw me. ‘Have you got any news? The police haven’t told me anything.’ She beckoned me inside.

Her apartment was exactly how I’d imagined it would be. A mix of vibrant colors and textures filled the spacious, open floor-plan apartment, which overlooked the Union Canal. A shrieking orange sofa took center stage in the living room, covered with leopard print cushions. In front of the sofa stood a modern-style chrome and glass coffee table, and a matching chrome and glass TV stand took up a corner wall. She must be Fandango’s daughter after all, I thought, as I observed her choice of décor. Again, I noticed the lack of photos or personal items. Maybe it was me. Surely I wasn’t the only person in the world with OCD: Obsessive clutter disorder?

‘What have the police told you so far?’ I asked, fishing for information. If I could learn what Janice Skipper had discovered with her investigation into the Fandango case, maybe I’d be able to beat her to the finish line and solve the case before she did. I got a shiver of excitement just thinking about it.

She brought her arms out to the side and let them fall again, hands hitting her thighs with a slapping sound. ‘They won’t tell me anything.’

‘I need to ask you some questions. They might seem a bit strange, but if we’re going to find out what happened to your dad, I need you to be completely honest with me, OK?’

Tia sat and patted the empty space next to her on the sofa. ‘Of course. I just want to help find my dad.’

I sunk down into the squashy fabric. ‘How old are you, Tia?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Have you ever seen your birth certificate?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Didn’t you see it when you applied for your driver’s license or passport?’

‘No, Dad always sorts out all that sort of stuff. Why are you asking?’

‘I’ll get to that in a minute.’ I gave her my best reassuring smile. I figured the next question would be a tough one for her. ‘What did Umberto tell you about your mum?’

Her body stiffened, and she glanced down. A clock ticking somewhere in the background was the only sound in the silence of the apartment. She sat like that for a while, picking at her thumbnail. When she looked up again, her eyes glistened with tears. ‘My mum died when I was really young.’ She sniffled and fanned at her eyes.

I reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Did he tell you what happened?’

‘No. He said it was too horrible. Of course, I asked him about it loads of times, but he refused to tell me.’

‘Did you ever try to find out what happened yourself?’

‘I wanted to, but I didn’t know where to start looking.’

‘Have you ever had contact with any other family?’

‘No. Dad said that we didn’t have any family left.’

I let go of her arm and sank back on the sofa. If I’d kidnapped a baby, that’s exactly what I would’ve said, too. ‘Has anyone tried to contact you, since he disappeared?’

She shook her head and sniffed.

‘When I looked around your dad’s house, I noticed there weren’t any photos of the two of you, or anyone else, for that matter.’ I glanced around the living room. ‘You haven’t got anything either. Why is that?’

‘Dad isn’t flashy at all. He’s a very private person, and he’s not very sentimental. He doesn’t keep stuff like that around, and I just never bothered either, I suppose.’

I smiled at her. ‘He’s obviously sentimental about you. He’s bought an apartment for you, and presumably he paid for your schooling in America. He’s looked after you single-handedly since you were born. Unfortunately, I think Umberto was carrying around a huge secret, and I need to get to the bottom of it if I’m going to find out what happened to him.’

Tia gave me a sad smile. ‘That’s all I want, too. I just want to bring him home safe and sound.’

‘What was your childhood like? Where did you live and go to school?’

‘I went to private school in the UK. When I graduated, I went to the States to study fashion at university. I’ve just finished a three year course.’

‘Whose idea was it to study in the states?’

‘Mine. Dad wanted me to stay here, but there are better opportunities in the States.’

‘What about friends?’

She gazed at the floor and rubbed her temples, sighing. ‘I didn’t have many friends. It was kind of just the two of us most of the time. I got the feeling that he didn’t want me to go too far away from him.’

‘He was over-protective?’

‘Yes, but in a good way.’

‘So, you didn’t have a nanny or someone to look after you? Someone who could’ve discovered something about your dad?’

‘No, Dad looked after me by himself.’

‘How about a cleaner or a chef?’

‘No, Dad did everything.’

Wow. A very rich, practical guy who ran a successful business, looked after his daughter single-handedly, and did the cleaning. I didn’t think there were many of those around. From what I’d learned so far about Umberto Fandango, he seemed to be a genuinely nice guy, which made this case even more peculiar. ‘And no one ever tried to approach you when you were younger? No one ever told you anything strange about your dad or asked questions?’

‘No.’

‘If you went to school in the UK, how come you never lost your American accent?’

‘I picked it up from Dad initially, but then the kids were mean to me at school. I got bullied a bit because I was different. But the more they tried to hurt me, the more determined I became to hang on to my accent. It’s good to be a little different from everyone else.’ She lifted her chin and looked me in the eye. ‘It’s strange, you know. We all start off the same, but I can’t understand why some people turn out mean.’

I sighed. I’d seen my fair share of mean people over the years. ‘There are beautiful people and ugly people in the world. And I don’t just mean on the outside. Unfortunately, that’s never going to change, but it really is true that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

A half-smile flickered across her face. ‘You’re right.’

‘While we’re on the subject of mean people, did your dad ever mention the name Carlos Bagliero?’

‘No.’

‘How about Enzo Fetuccini?’

‘Fetuccini? Like the pasta?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘So I was right about the pasta connection, then?’

‘Actually, I think you were, but it’s probably not the kind of connection you were hoping for. Fetuccini is the head of a mafia family in America. He had some kind of connection with your dad, but I don’t know exactly what it is.’

‘Dad never mentioned it to me, but then I didn’t have anything to do with his fashion business yet. I was going to go to work for him when I graduated from my fashion course. But I can’t believe he was involved with the mafia. He just wasn’t like that. There has to be some kind of rational explanation. Maybe they went to school together, or played on the same softball team when they were kids or something.’

I didn’t think it was likely. ‘He never mentioned anything to you about Fetuccini at all?’

‘No, Amber. You have to believe me.’

I nodded, giving her a minute before continuing on to the next subject.  Unfortunately, I didn’t think she would take it as well as the previous. ‘Tia, have you ever heard the name Samantha James?’

Her face wrinkled as she thought. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’

I took a deep breath, and chose my next words carefully. ‘You told me that your dad wasn’t married, but I’ve found out that wasn’t quite true. Apparently, he got married when you were about six months old. They only stayed together a few months, but they never got divorced.’

Tia shook her head and turned to me, confusion plastered all over her face. ‘He never told me.’ A silence ensued as she took this in. ‘What was her name again?’ she said finally, her mouth still open with shock.

‘Samantha James.’

‘So, he’s still married to her? She’s my…step-mother?’ Shoulders drooping, she gazed at the ground, shaking her head softly.

‘Ms. James says that your father asked her to come to his office and sign divorce papers on the day he disappeared.’

‘She saw him on the day he disappeared? Do you think that means something?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Did she sign these divorce papers?’

I shrugged. ‘She says that she did.’

‘God, what else hasn’t Dad told me?’ she whispered, more to herself than to me.

I watched a range of emotions flicker across her face; surprise, curiosity, worry, and anger. She finally settled on sadness.

‘We think he only married her to get British citizenship, and that he was hiding from something or someone because there’s no trace of an Umberto Fandango until nineteen and a half years ago when he came to the UK. We can’t find any birth certificates for you, either.’

She turned astonished eyes on me. ‘But that’s impossible. And anyway, what could he be hiding from?’