Killer in High Heels (12 page)

“Oh right, it’s okay for you to go undercover as Bruno the manhandler, but I happen to find one little unlocked office door and—wait, did you say ‘family man’?”

Ramirez pulled away, his jaw tightening into that silent Bad Cop routine again.

I gulped. “Please tell me you mean he attends his kids’ soccer games?”

No reaction. Crap. I hated it when Dana was right.

“Where are you staying?” Ramirez whispered. He glanced over his shoulder as a couple of the yellow sequin “girls” walked past.

“New York, New York. Room 1205.”

He nodded in the darkness. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead pulling open a door behind the curtain and shoving me through it.

Before I knew what had happened, I was standing outside next to an overflowing Dumpster and heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez locking the door behind me. I looked around, trying to reorient myself. It was cold and I had a pretty good idea that thousands of tiny rat eyes were staring at me from behind the piles of garbage. I did a quick mini-jog back around to the front of the building and hailed the first cab I saw.

When I got back to the hotel room, I sat down on the bed and stared up at the textured ceiling for answers again. If things had seemed a
little
odd before, they were into Michael Jackson-odd territory now. It was like I was starring in my own Scorsese movie. Only these goodfellas all wore heels.

Could my dad really be mixed up with the Mob? What exactly
did
Larry do for Monaldo? And what did Ramirez have to do with any of this? He was an LAPD homicide detective; this was clearly out of his jurisdiction.

Did it have anything to do with the gunshot? I wondered. I may not be Miss Police Procedure, but even I knew something was amiss here. I suddenly felt like the dimwitted blonde in the movie theater who spends the whole time asking her date, “Who’s that guy again?” “Now, why does he want to kill that other guy?” “And what does the donkey have to do with anything?” I was trying to keep up, honest I was. But somehow none of these scenes were fitting together.

A knock sounded at the door and I jumped about three feet in the air.

“Who is it?” I called, struggling to return my heart rate to normal.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice called. “Open up, Maddie.”

I breathed a tiny sigh of relief and undid the lock, letting in Ramirez. I hadn’t even gotten the door closed behind him before his lips were advancing on mine again.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” I put a hand in the center of his chest, warding him off. And almost wavered as I felt his six-day-a-week-at-the-gym muscles rippling beneath my palm.

Almost.

“Uh uh. No way, pal. You have some serious explaining to do before there’s any more of…” I paused, gesturing between our lips, “…this kind of stuff going on.”

He sighed, then sat down on the double bed and rubbed a hand at his temple. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“For starters, what the hell are you doing in Vegas? And why are you working for Monaldo?”

He paused. And for half a second I thought he wasn’t going to tell me, his dark eyes scrutinizing me. Finally he gave in, Lustful Cop for once winning out over Bad Cop. “Okay,” he said. “But it doesn’t leave this room.”

I sat down beside him and held up my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Two months ago,” he started, “the body of a customs agent at the port of L.A. comes floating in with the tide. I got the page that night I was at your apartment. It was pretty clear the way this guy was killed that it was a professional job.”

I gulped. “As in Mafia?”

“As in not a random act of violence. Apparently the agent had been asking questions about a container that came in from Thailand the week before. The container was stalled in customs. The agent dies, and two days later, customs clears our container.”

“Convenient.”

“Very. We followed the trail of paperwork through a couple of holding companies and dummy accounts, until it finally led us to a name. Monaldo.”

“So why don’t you arrest him?” I asked.

Ramirez sighed. “Trust me, I’d like to. Only it seems we aren’t the only agency investigating Monaldo.

“The ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement—thinks Monaldo is involved with the Marsucci family, an organization that’s suspected of having a hand in dozens of criminal activities along the West Coast, including importing counterfeit goods and distributing them here in the U.S. Only they haven’t got enough proof to link the containers coming in through the port of L.A. to the Marsuccis yet. Monaldo could be that link. They’ve had him under surveillance for the last eighteen months, but if they want a case to stick against a family like the Marsuccis, they’ve got to have solid evidence. Monaldo is their best chance at that and if I arrest him for murder, there goes their case.”

My head was spinning. This was all just a little too HBO for me. “So this is where Bruno comes in?”

He nodded. “If I can get enough proof to link Monaldo to the Marsuccis, then, and only then, can I arrest Monaldo for killing the customs agent.”

“What kind of link are you looking for?”

“Money,” he said. “If Monaldo is working for the Marsuccis, he’d have to be kicking back their share of the profits from the sale of the counterfeits to them somehow. So far we’ve scoured all of his accounts and come up empty. He must be handing it over in cash. Only we haven’t been able to catch him in the act yet. And, trust me, Bruno’s been sticking to this guy like glue.”

I shook my head. “I don’t get it; doesn’t murder out-rank a few fake items in your justice playbook?”

He gave me a look. “This is more than a few fake items. We’re talking ten billion dollars a year worth of fake items.”

I blinked. “Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow is right.”

“What are they counterfeiting, gold?”

Ramirez paused, suddenly not meeting my gaze.

“What?”

He looked down at his hands, rubbing them one over the other. Then he looked up at the ceiling and did a deep resigned sigh. “Shoes.”

“Excuse me?”

Another deep sigh. “Shoes, okay? They’re importing counterfeit designer shoes and passing them off as originals to retail stores up and down the West Coast.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. “Wait a minute—you’re telling me that Big Bad LAPD Officer Ramirez can’t make his case because of a few
girly
pairs of fake Fendis?” I was enjoying this way too much.

“That’s it. Laugh it up, shoe girl.” He gave me a playful punch on the arm.

And I was. I was laughing so hard tears were forming at the corners of my eyes and I was doing some really unladylike snorting. I couldn’t have designed better payback for his macho-man attitude if I’d tried. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, finally getting myself under control. “I
know
shoes. I could have helped!”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Maddie, this isn’t SpongeBob slippers. Profits from counterfeit items are often used to fund terrorist activities. The ICE takes this kind of thing very seriously. And you should too. The Marsuccis are not nice people. Not,” he emphasized, “the kind of people who take kindly to having women snoop through their offices.”

I pictured the look on Monaldo’s face when he’d caught me fumbling around his office. Ramirez was right; it wasn’t a comforting thought. Even less comforting was the thought that Larry was somehow mixed up with these kind of people.

“What about Hank?” I asked. “What does his death have to do with all this?”

Ramirez shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Was it really suicide?”

He paused, his Bad Cop face sliding into place again.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I stood up, crossing my arms over my chest. “Look, if you had just told me this three days ago, I wouldn’t have been at that club and you wouldn’t be having to worry about your precious cover being blown. So don’t pull this Bad Cop crap on me. I’m a big girl. Lay it on me.”

I could have sworn I saw him suppress a smile. “Okay,
big girl.
” Yep, that was definitely a smile. “No. We don’t think it was a suicide. The trajectory off the building is all wrong. Plus…” He paused again, weighing how much to tell me.

I did my best Bond Girl impression. Hand on hips, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
Don’t mess with me, pal.

Finally he relented. “This is just between you and me, got it?”

I nodded.

“This piece of information isn’t being released to the public, but there was a suicide note. Obviously forged. Someone wanted to make it
look
like Hank killed himself.”

“Do you think it was Monaldo?”

Ramirez shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It only matters what I can prove.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

He shook his head. “See, there you go with that ‘we’ thing again. Why do I get a very bad feeling every time you say ‘we’?”

I narrowed my eyes.

He grinned. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you do that.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“And that.” His grin widened into a full-fledged Big Bad Wolf smile, complete with shiny white teeth. “Honey, I’ve spent the last six weeks surrounded by men in bad wigs. There’s not much
you
can do that isn’t going to look cute.”

I had to admit, all the cute stuff was wearing me down. Especially when he said it with that lopsided grin, showing off the deceptively boyish dimple in his cheek. “So you’ve really been undercover this whole time?” I asked.

He nodded.

“All those ‘I’ll call you’s and getting your voice mail. You weren’t blowing me off?”

Ramirez took my hand in his and pulled me to him. “I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, but Bruno doesn’t get to take a whole lot of personal time.”

“So…you do like me?” I asked, knowing I sounded just a little pathetic, but the way Ramirez’s warm body was pressed against mine, I really didn’t care.

He nodded in response, his eyes going dark and intense as they honed in on mine.

“Are you going to kiss me now?” I whispered as he leaned in closer.

He nodded again.

And then he did. Slowly this time. Taking his time as he nibbled his way from one side of my mouth to the other. I think I sighed out loud.

“Forgive me yet?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “Uhn uh.”

He kissed me again, this time using a little tongue.

“How about now?” he murmured.

“Nope.”

His lips dipped back in. This time using a
lot
of tongue.

“Now?”

“Maybe just a little.”

He pulled back, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Tell you what, let me
really
make it up to you.”

My hormones were suddenly charging like a new MasterCard at Bloomies. I could think of about a hundred things he could do to make it up to me, all of them involving his tongue.

“How about you spend tomorrow taking in a show, doing some shopping…”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he talked right over me.

“…then I’ll take you out to dinner tomorrow night.”

I shut my mouth. “Like a date?”

“Right. Like a date.” He smiled.

Our first date. I bit my lip. He was driving a hard bargain.

“Okay,” I felt myself saying. “A date. On one condition.”

His smile widened. “Anything.”

“Leave Bruno at the club. I want one night alone with you. No pagers, no work.”

His smile wavered just a little, but he finally gave in. “Deal. But,” he added with a wink, “then you have to do something for me.”

Uh oh. “Does this something involve condoms?”

His grin widened again. “Okay, two things.”

Be still, my beating heart.

“I want you to stay away from the Victoria Club.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off again.

“Look, I’ve spent the last six weeks being Bruno—who, by the way, is not a very nice guy—to see Monaldo behind bars where he belongs. Trust me when I say Monaldo is not the kind of person you want to piss off, Maddie. Please, just go home.”

He had a point. Mr. Creepy was pretty…well, creepy. Not someone I particularly wanted to meet again.

But there was Larry to consider. It was becoming painfully obvious Larry was involved with some not-sonice guys. Maybe even
wise
guys. How involved, I wasn’t sure. And by the time Ramirez got enough to proof to put Monaldo away, who knows how many other jumpers might have taken a header off the Victoria’s roof. Bobbi was missing and Hank was dead. Odds were stacked against Larry.

“Promise me you’ll go home?” Ramirez prompted.

I put my hand behind my back and crossed my fingers. “I promise.”

Ramirez looked so relieved I almost felt guilty.

“That’s a good girl.”

I narrowed my eyes again. Almost. “‘Good girl’? What am I, a cocker spaniel?”

That wolfish grin slid across his face again. “You’d rather be a naughty girl?”

I clamped my mouth shut, at a loss for a good comeback to that one. Thankfully I didn’t need one, as he leaned in close and his lips brushed against mine.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d actually asked me on a real date. Or maybe the fact that he admitted he liked me and hadn’t been blowing me off for the last six weeks. Or maybe it was just the fact that the most action I’d seen in months was on
Joanie Loves Chachi
reruns. But as Ramirez nibbled on my lower lip, I suddenly found myself thinking a whole mess of
very
naughty girl thoughts.

I nuzzled closer, running my hands through his thick hair. Ramirez put his hand up my shirt and I think I blacked out for a moment.

He growled in my ear. “Six weeks is a long time.”

Tell me about it.

His fingers were fumbling with the clasp of my bra, and mine were frantically working on his belt buckle. Which, by the way, was harder to break into than Fort Knox. I had just given up and was pulling his T-shirt off instead when the door to the hotel room burst open.

“Did you see how Madonna was looking at me? He was so into me, I could totally—oh. Sorry.”

Marco and Dana paused in the doorway. Ramirez muttered a curse in Spanish.