Free The Fashion Police by Sibel Hodge

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 glint 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