* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?“What was that all about?” Garcia pulled out his black notebook and flipped through the pages after I’d hunted him down beside the argyle socks.
“He wants to steal you away from me.”
Garcia laughed. “I didn’t know we had a thing.”
“We do if you’re going to show up at my place of work and raise questions. I had to think fast, so now you’ve come to see me hoping to get a date.”
“Do I succeed?” He looked up, his dark eyes amused.
“You would be so lucky.”
“I really hope you turn out not to be a thief,” he said. “I’m due for a suit upgrade and I like what I see.”
I couldn’t tell if Garcia was flirting or joking or if this was some kind of police trick to throw me off guard. “What’s this all about? Do I need to call my lawyer?”
“One question,” he said. “And then I’ll be out of your hair. Or we can do it at the station in the presence of your lawyer. Your choice.”
I had no wish for another trip to the station. “Okay. Go for it.”
“How tall was Oliver Twist?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“We have a boot print from the scene, but my crime scene investigators say there is a discrepancy in the weight distribution that suggests that the size of the perp’s feet may not have matched his boots.”
I remembered the print. When I’d mentioned it to Jack, he told me he’d borrowed the boots from his cousin to throw the police off his tracks.
I tipped my head to the side, considering. Jack was around Garcia’s height. If he’d borrowed boots that were too big, Oliver Twist would have to be taller. “How tall are you?”
“Six feet two and a half inches.” He straightened his already straight back and puffed out his chest for good measure.
“That’s a good height,” I said. “That half inch makes the difference. I’ll bet your dance card is always full.”
His eyes lit up and he laughed. “No time for dancing when there are criminals to catch.”
“He was taller than you,” I said. “I would guess he had two inches on you from where my head hit his chest when he grabbed me.”
“Heavy?”
“That’s two questions,” I said. “But I’ll give it to you since you aren’t pulling out the cuffs today. I can’t guess his weight, but he was kind of beefy although not enough to stand out in any way. Anything else?”
“That’s it.” He snapped his notebook closed. “Do you enjoy selling suits?”
“I need to pay the bills while I look for a new job,” I said. “I seem to be constantly underemployed. Why did I get a degree when everyone wants someone with two degrees, or they don’t need a degree at all? Why did I burden myself with all this debt? I should have gone into something with a guaranteed job like you.”
“I have loans to pay, too,” Garcia said. “I did a degree in criminology before joining the CPD. I love the work, but I have to admit the pay isn’t great.”
“You should pick up a side gig. That’s what I did. I work a second job at the candy store in Westfield Shopping Mall.”
“$25 million would make quite a difference . . .”
“Garciaaaa . . .” I tipped back my head and groaned. “You always ruin things with your baseless accusations just when we’re vibing. I’m not going to fall for your underhanded tricks.”
“So $25 million wouldn’t make a difference?” He tipped his head to the side, a smile tugging at his lips. I could see a real criminal falling for his charm.
“Not if it comes with a jail time price tag. Imagine the interest that would accrue on those loans if I spent the next ten years in prison. I’d get out and have to spend the rest of my life trying to earn enough to pay them off.”
He laughed again, a warm rich sound that vibrated through my body. “Give my best to Riswan.”
“I will.” I waited until he reached the door. “Next time you need a suit, stop by the shop. I’ll give you a 10 percent discount.”
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll definitely be back.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?Chloe and Olivia came to Bloomingdales with me the next day for my high-end dress-shopping experience.
“I hope they turn you away,” Chloe said. She’d forced me to go to the designer floor, where the private shoppers were located, even though I’d told her I was buying my own dress. “Then you can come back after you’ve bought clothes somewhere else and tell them they’ve made a big mistake.”
“This isn’t Pretty Woman. I can buy my own clothes.” I looked around at the racks of designer outfits, most of which were chained to the rails.
“That movie was so lame.” Olivia stretched out on a cream velvet chaise. She was in a new Goth phase and had come dressed all in black with a pair of Demonia thick-soled knee-high boots covered with buckles and chains. Her eyes were heavily rimmed in black and her blond hair was now green, framing a face that was the mirror image of Chloe’s except for her still-chubby cheeks. “I couldn’t believe the underlying misogyny. Edward is a condescending dick. He was rude to the staff, there were no diverse characters, and the movie assumed all sex workers want to be saved.”
“Aside from the fact that I’m bursting with pride at your astute sociological and political analysis, I see I haven’t raised you right when it comes to traditional rom-coms,” Chloe said. “First, that kind of language is unacceptable. Second, rom-coms from the eighties and nineties can still be enjoyed for what they are despite their problematic content. They are light, fluffy entertainment where you can indulge in the willing suspension of disbelief and accept that an insanely rich man can fall in love with a hard-up struggling woman, and they can live happily ever after.”
“Is that what Simi is doing?” Olivia crossed her ankles, careful to keep her boots off the couch. I was relieved to see that, despite the attitude and angst, she still had some sense of decorum. “Because it sounds real to me.”
“I’m not a sex worker with a heart of gold, Olivia,” I pointed out as I flicked through a rack of dresses I couldn’t afford. “And how do you know what a sex worker is anyway? When I was your age, I still believed in Santa Claus.”
And then, because I was annoyed that I’d agreed to come to this floor instead of going to a department store where normal people with normal amounts of money shop, and Olivia was guilting Chloe over something that brought her mom joy, I said, “I think you’re spending too much time on your phone.”
“Mom!” Olivia bolted upright at the hint that her life might be imminently ruined. “Don’t listen to her.”
Chloe’s lips rose at the corners. “She has a point.”
“I have to be on my phone. It’s part of life. This isn’t the Dark Ages.” Olivia shot me a look of pure desperation. “Okay. I take it back. I’ll stream every eighties and nineties rom-com I can find as soon as I get home and I’ll love them. I’ll tease out my hair, wear blue eyeshadow and leg warmers, and give up my agency as a woman to be pampered by an uptight billionaire as he destroys the world with his capitalist greed.”