Homicide in High Heels (3 page)

"Oh, Jack, thank God you're here," Faux Dad
said, rushing up to us. Completely obliviously to Bad Cop mode, he
threw his arms around my husband's neck, giving him a big bear
hug.

Ramirez lifted one eyebrow at me and
awkwardly patted Faux Dad on the back. "Uh, hi, Ral—er,
Fernando."

"This is a tragedy," Faux Dad said, breaking
the embrace. "A travesty. A horror! How could this have happened in
my
salon?"

"That's what I'm here to find out," Ramirez
assured him. "Can I ask you a few questions about the victim?"

Faux Dad paled. "Victim. Does that
mean…?"

Ramirez cleared his throat. "At the moment,
we're treating this as a homicide investigation."

Faux Dad put one hand on his heart, the
other on my shoulder, swaying slightly on his feet. "Oh, no. Oh,
heavens. Oh, this can't be. This is Beverly Hills," he said,
shaking his head. "This sort of thing just does
not
happen
here."

"What can you tell me about Lacey…" Ramirez
looked down, checking his notes.

"Desta," Faux Dad supplied. "Lacey Desta.
She was a new customer, but a good one. Came in every Monday for
her tan, every Saturday for her mani-pedi, and every other Tuesday
to touch up her highlights. Waxing on Friday and facials on
Thursday."

I felt my own eyebrows rise. I knew as well
as anyone what went into a high-maintenance beauty regimen, but
Lacey sounded like she took it to the extreme. Even I went two
weeks between pedicures.

"Did she always come in alone?" Ramirez
asked.

Faux Dad nodded. "Yes, as far as I saw."

"Did she have any family, friends, anyone
close to her that you know of?"

He shook his head. "She mentioned some
family back east, but I didn't get the feeling they were close. She
really just talked about Bucky. She was dating that ballplayer,"
Faux Dad explained.

"Right. I'm familiar with Davis," Ramirez
answered. "What about your staff?"

"What about them?" Faux Dad responded,
shooting a nervous glance to the crew still assembled in the
lobby.

"Which one added the solution to Lacey's
tanning booth?"

I watched Faux Dad's Adam's apple bob up and
down as he wiped his palms against the legs of his white trousers.
"I did," he squeaked out. "Why? Was there something wrong with
it?"

But instead of answering, Ramirez fired
another question at him. "Who had access to the solution prior to
its use?"

"Well," Faux Dad glanced behind him again.
"Anyone, I suppose. I mean, the storage cupboards aren't
locked."

"What time did you add the solution to
Lacey's booth?"

Faux Dad licked his lips. "Around 10:00. I
knew Lacey was scheduled at 11:30, but I had another client coming
in for a cut and color at 10:30, so I wanted to get the booth ready
early."

"So, between 10:00 and 11:30, the booth was
not monitored?"

Faux Dad nodded. "That's right." He paused.
"You think someone tampered with the spray?"

"We're just trying to establish a timeline
at the moment," Ramirez said.

I resisted the urge to translate into real
person speak for Faux Dad that, yes, someone did tamper and, yes,
you were the last person to put fingerprints on the murder weapon.
Mostly because I wasn't sure I could catch him if he fainted.

"Who knew Lacey would be in today?" Ramirez
went on.

Faux Dad wrinkled his forehead in
concentration. "Well, I…I don't know. I mean, it was written on the
schedule."

"And the schedule is?"

"At the reception desk."

"Marco's desk?" Ramirez asked.

"Yes," Faux Dad agreed. "But anyone can see
it. It's not like it's hidden."

"Was Marco away from his desk at any time
this morning?"

"I…uh…I don't know," Faux Dad sputtered.

"It's okay," I reassured him, putting a hand
on his shoulder.

Ramirez must have realized that his Bad Cop
routine was making Faux Dad sweat, because he quickly eased off.
"I'll ask Marco about his movements," he said. "And I'd like to get
a list of all the other stylists and staff you have. We're going to
need to get statements from everyone."

Faux Dad nodded, his face about three shades
paler than when I'd entered the salon this morning. "Of
course."

"Ramirez!" one of the guys in uniform
shouted, hailing him to the back room again.

He nodded an exit to Faux Dad and me and
went off into cop mode again.

"That's it," Faux Dad said, watching him go.
"I'm ruined. Word will get out that you tan at Fernando's and end
up dead. I'll be finished in this town."

"Don't worry," I told him, patting his
shoulder again. "Ramirez is great at his job. He'll find whoever
did this. Everything will be back to normal around here in no
time."

Unfortunately, it was a statement I only
half believed. Crime scene veteran that I was becoming, I knew that
"normal" was a relative term after a murder had occurred.

After I'd given an official statement to
Charlie and another uniformed officer (who I didn't know—he must
have been new), I rushed to my cousin's house where I gave her all
the gory deets on the case while making profuse apologies for being
late. She made the appropriate "ohmigod" sounds, and then I took
the twins home and called my best friend, Dana.

Dana was an actress and, unfortunately,
currently on location in San Francisco, shooting a scene for the
cable drama
Lady Justice
, and didn't pick up. I left her a
quick voicemail telling her to call me back ASAP.

Then I put
Dora the Explorer
on TV
(for the twins) and pulled up the
L.A. Informer
's celebrity
news website (for me), following the latest posts and tweets as
news of Lacey's death broke all over the tabloid universe.
Speculation was rampant, but the facts were sparse, limited to
those I'd already learned from Ramirez. I noticed that someone had
leaked the method of death despite the absence of an ME's report,
the case already being referred to in the press as the "Tanning
Salon Murder."

I hated to admit it, but as much as I'd
tried to reassure Faux Dad earlier, I had to agree with him. This
murder had the potential to be death to his salon.

* * *

The next morning Ramirez was predictably
gone before dawn. I was awakened by my human alarm clocks an hour
later. Their dual cries, clamoring for their morning bottles, broke
through the baby monitor static on my nightstand as soon as the sun
peeked through the yellow curtains in their nursery. I stumbled to
do their bidding, feeding, changing, and cleaning Livvie and Max.
Then I plopped them into their walkers with a handful of cheerios
each and I shuffled into the kitchen to get some much needed
caffeine while they watched Elmo. God bless that furry little
monster. He was the only way I was ever able to get a full cup of
coffee in the morning.

Half an hour later I had showered, dressed,
and even managed to apply a little mascara and lip gloss before
Sesame
Street
ended.

The twins were just starting to fuss when
the doorbell rang.

"Knock, knock," Marco said, not waiting for
me to answer before poking his head into the house.

"Come on in," I told him, waving him into
the living room as I surfed the on-demand channels for another
episode of toddler faves.

As he stepped through the doorway, I noticed
that today he was adorned in a pair of hot pink biker shorts,
matching jellies sandals, and a black tank top with mesh down the
sides. He'd topped it off with a neon green ascot with tiny
hot-pink Chihuahua's on it. The outfit was so loud I almost didn't
notice the petite, Asian woman who slipped into the house behind
him.

"Hey, you got a pretty nice place here," she
said, eyeing her surroundings. "It's small but homey. Cozy. You
know, kinda like one of those sitcom sets but without all the
expensive furniture and nice artwork and stuff."

Ling was 4'11", eighty pounds, and had the
kind of smooth complexion and glossy hair that made it totally
impossible to tell her age. She worked at the Glitter Galaxy, a
strip club out in Industry, which meant her fashion sense tended
toward the short, low cut, or pasted on. At first I'd felt sorry
for her and her limited career options. Then I'd learned she made
six figures a year dancing and felt sorry I didn't have the rhythm
to join her.

"Um, thanks," I said, choosing to take
Ling's words as a compliment.

"So how are my favorite
almost-one-year-olds?" Marco ask, doing little air kisses at Livvie
and Max. They both greeted him with squeals of delight and
outstretched chubby arms. Auntie Marco had been gun-shy about the
idea of "short, sticky people" at first, but as the twins had
gotten older, and less likely to spit up on his designer clothing,
they'd bonded like glue.

"They're good," I answered for them. "You
want coffee?"

"Black, lots of sugar," Marco said
nodding.

"Ditto," Ling added, leaning down to shake a
rattle at Max.

"You're not working at Fernando's today?" I
asked Marco, ducking into the kitchen and grabbing two mugs.

Marco shook his head as I returned. "Nope.
It's closed up tight. The police had crime scene tape all over the
doors."

I cringed, feeling a pang of sympathy again
for Faux Dad.

"Which is why we're here…" Marco trailed
off, shooting a meaningful look at Ling. She nodded and winked back
at him.

A "hair-brained scheme" alarm immediately
started going off in my brain, an uneasy feeling in my stomach
mixing uncomfortably with the strong coffee.

"
What
is why you're here?" I
prompted.

"Well, just that we need to help
Fernando."

"Why do I get the feeling you don't mean by
sending him a sympathy muffin basket?"

Marco rolled his eyes so far I feared they'd
pop out of their sockets. "No, silly goose, I mean with the
investigation
."

I narrowed my eyes. "What
investigation?"

"Well, duh!" Ling jumped in. "That tan
chick's murder!"

"You mean the death that the
police
are looking into?" I clarified.

Marco crossed his arms over his chest and
shook his head at me. "Maddie Springer, you don't really mean to
tell me that a murder practically falls into your lap, and you're
not going to investigate?"

I shook my head from side to side, feeling
my blonde hair whip my cheeks. "No, I am not. My husband is
perfectly capable of figuring this one out on his own."

More eye rolling. "But your stepfather is
counting on you!"

I shook my head again. "Oh, no. Don't you
play the family card with me."

"But what about the salon?" he went on. "The
press is kiiilling him." He drew the word out with a dramatic flair
that could have won him a role on Broadway.

"I think he'll live."

"But will his business?"

I paused. I hated to admit that I'd worried
about the very same thing.

"Here's the thing," Ling said, jumping in.
"I got inside connections that the police don't have."

I paused. There was that uneasy feeling in
my stomach again.

"Okay, I'll bite," I said, sipping at my
coffee. "What kind of connections?"

"I happen to be good friends with one of the
other players on the Stars."

"Define friends?" I said.

"He gets half priced lap dances."

I had to ask.

"Okay, so you have an…in with a player," I
conceded. "I'm not sure that really helps us."

"Of course it does!" Marco said. "We can
pump him for information."

"'Pump for information?' You have to stop
watching Mark Wahlberg movies, Marco."

Marco grinned. "But he's so hot."

"John Ratski is the player," Ling continued.
"He comes into the Galaxy all the time. I'm sure I can get all
sorts of info from this guy."

I bit my lip. I knew that name. Ramirez had
pointed him out to me at the ballgame the other day. He had a shaky
RBI or BMI or BMX or something like that. But I was pretty sure it
wasn't good.

"So what kind of info do we think Ratski
has?"

"Ratski and Bucky are tight," Ling said.
"Like thick Bromance tight. If Bucky confided in anyone about
killing his girlfriend, it's Ratski."

"Whoa." I held a hand up. "Who said Bucky
killed Lacey?"

Again I got the duh look from the double
trouble. "Come on, you know it's
always
the boyfriend who
kills the girl. Don't you watch CNN?" Marco asked.

My turn to roll my eyes. "Okay, even
ignoring your complete lack of evidence other than television
sensationalism, what makes you think that Ratski will talk to
us?"

"Leave it to me," Ling said, sending me a
wink. "I can soften him up."

I bit my lip. Knowing how Ling made her
living, I wasn't sure
soften
was the right verb. On the
other hand…Marco had a point. While normally all press is good
press, the idea that Fernando's tanning booths were killing clients
wasn't going to do much for his business. The salon was Faux Dad's
life. I couldn't let the speculation take it down. While I had
complete faith in Ramirez to get to the bottom of things, it
couldn't hurt to just go talk to Ratski, could it?

"Okay. Let's go talk to the ball player," I
conceded.

Marco let out a high-pitched squeal.

"But just
talk
," I emphasized. "No
'info pumping.'"

"Right." Marco nodded. "Just talk."

"He'll be in at four," Ling informed me.

I paused. "Be in…"

"The Glitter Galaxy."

Mental forehead thunk. "We're talking to him
at the
strip club
?"

"Well it's not like he'd give me his home
address," Ling said, rolling her eyes. "Duh! How would that look to
his wife?"