The Fashion Police (5 page)

I shut the door and retraced my steps over the obstacle course of car parts that lined his front path. ‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? So what’s all this about your van? Do you seriously expect me to believe that Mr. Gone-in-Sixty-Seconds has had his own van stolen?’

He bit a grimy fingernail. ‘It’s true!’

‘What, like the time I arrested you on Christmas Day for driving a stolen car, and you said Santa Claus must’ve delivered it to your house by mistake?’

‘Yeah, Santa Claus is always making those kinds of mistakes. It happens every year.’

I glared at him.

‘But it’s really true this time,’ he added quickly.

‘OK. Then how about you tell me about the other guy.’

He stopped gnawing on his nail. ‘What guy?’

‘The one you were talking to outside your house the night the van was allegedly stolen. The guy you shook hands with, who then drove off in your van.’

‘Have you been talking to that crazy old bat next door?’

I folded my arms and waited for an answer.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The van was stolen, and, unless you can prove otherwise, I’m going to get my insurance money,’ he sneered at me, revealing teeth that looked like they hadn’t seen a toothbrush in very long time.

‘OK, if it was really stolen, then you won’t mind taking a lie detector test, will you?’ I smiled and watched him squirm.

‘They don’t have them things here. They only have them in American films.’ His voice cracked slightly.

‘Oh, yes, they do,’ I fibbed.

‘Don’t.’

‘Do.’

‘Don’t,’ he insisted.

 I rolled my eyes and yawned. ‘Boring!’

Suddenly his gaze sharpened. He peered at me closely. ‘Have you got paint in your hair?’

I touched my head. God, I thought it had completely faded by now. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, call me when you want to do the test.’ And I disappeared quicker than Doctor Who’s Tardis.

****

I beamed up at the Hi-Tec office half an hour later.

‘Yo-yo,’ I said to Hacker as I strolled in.

He glanced up. ‘It only one yo.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m saving time. I can say hello and goodbye together.’ I plugged my camera battery into a socket to charge, picked up another camera from Brad’s office and dumped it into my rucksack. Pulling my notebook out, I sat on the edge of Hacker’s desk.  ‘Can you check out these license plate numbers for me, please?’

‘Your wish is my command,’ he said as I perched there, looking over his shoulder as he typed in the information.

I called Romeo while we waited for the results but he didn’t answer, so I left a message asking him to call me back and hung up. The results finally popped up and Hacker pointed at the screen. The three cars from the Cohens’ warehouse came back to legitimate numbers. No surprise there. The Purple People Eater jeep belonged to a Celia James. I wracked my brain trying to remember whether or not I’d ever come across that name before. Nope, nothing doing.

‘Who’s Celia James?’ Hacker asked.

‘I don’t know. But Fandango’s disappeared, my car’s been broken into, and Celia James has been following me. Methinks all this cannot be a coincidence.’

5

The next morning I woke up bright and early, raring to go. Now that I had something to sink my teeth into, I could feel the old familiar buzz of adrenaline surging through my veins. Amber Fox, Miss Hot-Shit Investigator, was well and truly on her way back!

I stood outside Fandango’s offices, checking out the view as I waited for the business to open. There were two houses in the vicinity of the old flour mill that could have had a view of what happened. I needed to talk to the owners, but first I wanted to speak to Fandango’s assistant, and I was betting that if it was London Fashion Week soon, they’d still have an immense amount of work to be getting on with, even though their boss was missing.

I didn’t have to wait long. At eight-thirty, she pulled up beside me in her spanking-new Beemer. I waited until she had poked her skinny legs out the car door before I got out of my own vehicle. She rolled her eyes when she saw me.

‘Morning.’ I beamed at her.

‘Hunh,’ she snorted, with an expression that clearly suggested I’d personally ruined her morning. Obviously the whack on her head hadn’t improved her manners.

‘I didn’t catch your name the other day,’ I said, falling into step along side her.

A blank expression stared back at me.

‘Your name?’ I prompted.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ she asked, scowling.

I whistled. ‘Wow, that’s a long name.’

She muttered something under her breath.

‘Well, since I’m investigating the disappearance of Umberto Fandango, I’d say it had quite a lot to do with me.’

‘Heather Brown,’ she finally snapped, frosty vibes rolling off her tongue in my direction. No, frosty was too warm a word. More like glacial.

‘I need to have a look around, and ask you a few questions.’

She didn’t bother to respond as she unlocked the offices and flipped on the lights. I hurried along behind her as she clacked her way toward the office she shared with Fandango, her Jimmy Choos sending out an unhappy snap with every step.

I studied her as she took a deep breath at the sight of the bullet hole in the doorframe, the dried smears of blood on the floor, and the residue of fingerprint powder which covered most of the surfaces in the office. She stepped over the bloodstains and placed her briefcase on her desk, glaring at me with defiant eyes. Ms. Ice Queen Brown didn’t seem all that upset about the fact that her boss was missing and possibly dead. Then again, she didn’t seem the type to let anything upset her.

‘How’s your head?’ I asked, studying the angle of the bullet hole and taking in the rest of the scene.

‘It’s still there.’

‘Well, that’s a bonus. Are you sure you’re up to working?’

‘I’m only staying for a few hours to sort out some things that can’t wait.’ She shot me a dismissive look.

‘So, what happened yesterday?’

She sighed and lit a cigarette. Tilting her head back, she exposed her scrawny neck and took a slow drag. Seeing I wasn’t just going to move on, she blew a line of blue-grey smoke in my direction and answered. ‘I don’t know. Someone hit me over the head. I got knocked out and I can’t remember.’ She curled her lips in a nasty half-smile and leaned skinny forearms on her desk.

‘How unfortunate,’ I said in a tone that implied I didn’t believe her in the slightest, and as I waited for her to continue, she flipped open her laptop and stared at the screen.

‘Did you see or hear anything before you were knocked out?’ I sat down in front of her, starting to understand why someone would hit her over the head. Much more of this and I would be taking a swing at her, myself.

‘No.’ This time she didn’t even bother to look at me when she answered. She rested her cigarette in an ashtray on her desk and typed away, avoiding my steady gaze.

‘What’s the last thing you do remember?’

‘I was here, at my desk. When I woke up again, I was lying on the floor, there,’ she said in a flat monotone as she pointed to the space between the back of her desk and the wall.

‘What time was that?’

‘About seven p.m.’

‘Who else was in the building at that time?’

‘It was just me and Umberto.’

‘Was the place locked up and alarmed while you were in here?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. The door alarms were probably on.’

‘And the entire fashion collection has been stolen from this building?’

‘Looks like it.’ She shrugged.

‘Any idea how they got in if the alarm was set?’

Her head swiveled around and she narrowed her blue eyes at me in a piercing gaze. ‘No idea. So maybe the alarm wasn’t on after all.’

I sighed, meeting her stare head on, while I thought. What I really needed was a good, nosy look at their computers. If anything suspicious had been going on, I was betting on the fact that there was a trail. There usually was. I reviewed my choices. I could ask Heather if I could take a look, but I thought she’d give me a big, fat no, and I didn’t want to tip her off. The other choice was that I could come back after she’d gone. 

‘Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?’ I asked.

‘No.’

I stood up. ‘Well, you take it easy then.’

I wandered around the runway area and checked the dressing rooms that were next door to it before I headed to the upstairs storage area. I wanted to check for myself that the fashion collection was gone. Sure enough, the only thing left in the space was a lonely rhinestone lying on the floor. I slipped it inside a clear plastic bag and put it in my rucksack. By the time I came back down to the main floor, the receptionist had appeared. She sat at her desk, sobbing into a damp tissue.

‘It’s terrible,’ she sniffed when she saw me. As she wiped her eyes, I sent her a sympathetic smile. 

‘The disappearance? I know. It’s awful. Were you here when it happened?’

The question brought on a fresh burst of waterworks. ‘No.’ She pulled a fresh tissue from her bag and blew her nose hard. ‘I finish at six. It happened after I left. Gosh, I feel dreadful about this.’ She glanced at the bloody drips on the floor with a shudder. They  trailed from Heather’s office all the way past the reception area and out the doors. ‘Do you think he’s been k-k-killed?’

‘I hope not.’ I gave her shoulder a sympathetic rub and leaned in closer as she continued.

‘Umberto was such a wonderful person. A true gentleman, you know? He wasn’t one of those rich people where fame and money goes to their heads, and they forget about the little people. And he was such a good boss, too,’ she added hastily, but not before I had noted the adoration in her voice.

I wondered if she might be in love with him. And if so, were the feelings reciprocated? Because if they weren’t, could this simply be a case of unrequited love? Could this young woman who sat crying in front of me have been so obsessed with Umberto Fandango that she didn’t want anyone else to have him, and would see him dead before that happened? No. I dismissed the idea as soon as it popped into my head. This seemed far too elaborate a plan for a crime of passion. 

Seeing that she had calmed down, I decided to try another tack. ‘What’s his assistant like?’ I asked, my voice dropping down to a whisper.

She looked me squarely in the eye. ‘She’s a bitch.’

Yes, that just about summed up my impression, as well. I chatted with the receptionist for a few more minutes, but she didn’t reveal anything useful. 

As I left, I thought about what I knew so far. Fandango must’ve been injured and dragged out through the front doors. At the same time, the entire fashion collection must’ve been bundled into a large enough vehicle waiting in the parking lot. This had happened around seven p.m., so it would be dark by then, but possibly early enough still for someone to have heard the shots fired. There were street lights outside the building, so it would’ve been light enough to see the vehicle leaving.

The occupants of the house which sat to the right side of the old flour mill hadn’t seen a thing, so I tried the other large, detached house opposite Fandango’s. As I rapped on the door, a black woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties answered.

‘Hi, I’m Amber Fox, and I’m investigating the theft and possible kidnapping that took place last night at the old flour mill.’

‘I’ve already spoken to the police and told them everything. I was the one that reported it,’ she said, starting to close the door.

I held my hand out to stop her. ‘Actually, I’m from Mr. Fandango’s insurance company, and we have to investigate any possible claim. Can you tell me what you saw?’

‘I’d just finished dinner and I heard a loud bang. BANG!’ she yelled, making me jump. ‘Like that.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘I thought it was a car backfiring or something, but when I looked out the window, I saw a white van speeding away from the warehouse.’

I turned around and looked from her front door across the street. She had a birds-eye view of the parking area. ‘Did you get the registration number?’

‘No, but I know exactly who was driving.’ She gave me a knowing smile and waited.

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Barack Obama.’

My first thought was that I didn’t know whether to laugh my head off or drag her down to the funny-farm. ‘You’re telling me that Barack Obama was driving the van? Don’t you think he’s a bit too busy for a little trip to Hertfordshire? I’m sure he’s got lots of other presidential things to be getting on with.’

If looks could kill, I’d have been a goner.

‘I know perfectly well what I saw, and it was Obama. I’ve been waiting for a man like that to come to power ever since Martin Luther King got himself shot. He’s a savior – and he’s really cute, too.’

‘Did you notice anything else about him?’

She paused and screwed her eyes up in thought. ‘When he drove up the road, he threw a cigarette out the window, which I thought was a bit strange. I didn’t think Obama smoked. I thought he was a bit of a health freak.’

And then I got it. There’s a big difference between what people think they see, and what they really do see.

I thanked her and headed back to the car to phone Brad.

‘Speak,’ he said.

‘Have you ever wondered how construction cranes are erected? Does another crane have to put up the first crane? And if so, how did they make that crane? And so on and so on. It could go on for ever, and–’

‘Stop talking rubbish, Foxy,’ Brad said.

‘Well, stop answering the phone like that, then!’

‘What have you found out?’

‘I’ve solved the crime already. Apparently, Barack Obama was driving the getaway vehicle. Can we contact the CIA and get them to pay a visit to the White House?’

A silent pause. And then: ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘The driver wore an Obama mask, which seems a bit strange. I wouldn’t have thought that the mob would be into wearing masks. Aren’t they more into suits and Trilby hats?’ I asked. ‘Unless the modern mafia are members of the Democratic appreciation society, of course.’

‘Anything’s possible these days. Did you get anything out of his assistant?’

‘She’s developed amnesia. I’m guessing it’s selective.’

****