Killer in High Heels (2 page)

I suddenly needed a shower.

Dana grabbed my arm and steered me over to the woman behind the glass counter, who wore a nametag that read MAC. She was shorter than me, which put her near the five foot mark, with bushes of frizzy red hair that Carrot Top would be jealous of. And an eye patch. Seriously. A black, Johnny Depp-style eye patch that looked like it should come with a parrot. I tried not to stare.

“What can I do for ya, honey?” she asked, her voice rough with years of cigarette smoke. Or maybe just trying not to inhale the homeless guy stench wafting in through the ancient ventilation ducts exposed in the ceiling.

Dana stepped up to the smudged glass counter and did her best Dirty Harry. “I’m lookin’ to pack.”

I rolled my eyes.

Scary Gun Lady narrowed her good one at us.

“What my friend means,” I jumped in, “is that she’s looking for a starter sort of gun. Something small. And safe. You know, that won’t go off easily.”

Her eye narrowed further and she did a hands on hips thing. “You want a
safe
gun?”

I think I heard Ponytail Guy snicker behind us.

I looked to Dana for help but she was busy scrutinizing the display case full of deadly weapons. I knew that look in her eyes. It was the same one I got when Dior pumps went on sale. My mild fear jumped up a notch.

“Safe-ish maybe?”

Scary Gun Lady gave me a once-over, her gaze stopping at my sparkly pink top, which, by the way, would have been perfect for a stroll around the mall.

“Honey, you’ve never held a gun before, have you?”

No, but I had wicked accuracy with a stiletto heel. “Nuh uh,” I replied.

She shook her head, her red hair flying around her face like Bozo the Clown’s. Though, in all honestly, my gaze was still riveted to that eye patch. Why we had ventured into the depths of North Hollywood for guns was still a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, they sell guns in Beverly Hills too.

“I like this one,” Dana, said, pointing to a DDA .45 caliber pistol. Neon pink.

The saleswoman did the hands on hips thing again. “Honey, I could sell you that gun. But the first time you pull it out, you know what your attacker’s gonna say?”

Dana and I shook our heads in unison.

“Nothin’. He’ll be laughing too hard.”

Dana nodded solemnly. “Right. No pink.” She straightened up and did her serious face, scrunching her eyebrows together like she was thinking really hard. “See, I’m mostly looking for some kind of protection against those smarmy kinds of guys who hit on you in clubs, and then when you turn them down wait for you to go to the bathroom, then slip you a roofie and you wake up in some stranger’s bed the next day. Know what I mean?”

Mac raised her eyebrows and looked from Dana to me, as if saying, “Is this chick for real?”

“Okay, look. You seem like nice enough girls, and I don’t wanna see you get hurt. How about some pepper spray?”

“What, do we look like amateurs?” Dana asked.

Even I had to agree with the snort of laughter Ponytail Guy let out at that one.

But Dana wasn’t giving up. “Listen, Rico told me you could help me find something. He said you were the best.”

“Rico?” The woman’s face softened and she shifted her defensive posture. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Rico?” She reached into the glass case and pulled out a silver handgun. “Here, this is what you girls need. A Smith and Wesson LadySmith. Semiautomatic, nine millimeter, rubber grips in stainless finish. Hardly any recoil, but it packs quite a punch and fits in your purse.”

Dana’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. “Can I hold it?”

Gun Lady nodded. Dana picked it up, doing her best James Bond stance. The guys in baseball caps took a couple steps backward.

“There’s also the semiauto, barrel tip.” Mac reached into the case again, pulling out a gun in black. “They’re lighter, easier to load than a LadySmith. The only disadvantage is they don’t retain spent casings. Little harder to explain when the cops show up.” She gave me a wink and a nudge.

I did a feeble laugh, trying not to picture how many “explanations” Mac had spun in her lifetime.

“I like this one,” Dana said, still holding the Lady-Smith, staring down the barrel at her reflection in the smudged glass.

In all honesty, the light in her eyes was getting a little scary.

“I’ll take it.”

The saleswoman beamed like a proud Mama. “And you?” she asked me.

“I think I’ll stick with pepper spray.”

Twenty minutes later I had my mini canister of Pepper-Guard and Dana had a trunk full of ammunition. Not only had she laid out her Visa for the Smith and Wesson—which she could take possession of in a mere ten days, provided she’d never been arrested for gun running—but she’d also come away with a box full of cartridges, a leather holster, handcuffs (I so did not want to know what those were for!), and last, but certainly not least, a stun gun in the shape of a cell phone. Dana was armed and dangerous.

Miss Guns and Ammo dropped me off at my Santa Monica studio before heading off to class to show Rico her new “toys”. She tried to get me to come with her, saying they were going over frontal assaults tonight, but I begged off with the fact that I had to get some work done or my employer might threaten to fire me. Again. Which wasn’t a total lie. They hadn’t been too happy with the way my stabbing incident (not to mention marriage to Bigfoot!) had played across the front page, tarnishing their family-friendly image.

Ever since I was old enough to dress Barbie in her pink sparkly ball gowns, I’d dreamed of being a fashion model, strutting the runways of Paris in slinky couture and designer heels. However, by eighth grade it was painfully clear that even the highest stilettos weren’t going to help me achieve fashion model height. So, I did the next best thing, studying fashion design. Specifically shoes. Unfortunately, every failed model studies fashion and an actual paying job was harder to land than a contract with Cover Girl. Somehow I ended up at the only place that would take me. Tot Trots Children’s Shoe Designs. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly haute couture, but it paid the bills, I got to set my own hours, and my Spiderman flip-flops were the top-selling shoe at Payless last season. I was currently working on the Rainbow Brite jellies for the spring collection, complete with beaded shoe charms.

Paris, eat your heart out.

I let myself into my studio and checked my machine. The light was blinking. I dropped my pepper spray onto the counter and hit the play button.

“You have two new messages.”

Check me out. Maybe my social life was looking up.

I pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer (hey, shopping burns off a lot of calories, right?) while I listened to the first message.

“This is Felix Dunn with the
Informer
again. We plan to run a piece on you and we’d love to get a quote. Please call me back—”

Delete. You’d think by now the tabloids would have moved on to Jen’s newest flame or TomKat’s latest squabble. I mean, I only popped
one
boob!

I waited for the next message to start. There was a pause and some heavy breathing. Then, “I, uh, I’m looking for Madison Springer. I hope I have the right number. I saw your name in the paper. This is Larry.”

There was another pause.

“Your father.”

I stared at the phone, spoonful of Chunky Monkey suspended in midair as I blinked like mad at my machine. Did he just say what I thought he said?

Then I realized the message wasn’t over.

“I know it’s been a while. But I, uh, I read about you in the paper. How you helped the police last summer. And I could kind of use your help right now. I, uh…”

Another pause as I held my breath. There was the sound of movement in the background.

“Oh, god…what are you doing…
no!
”

I froze as a loud bang rang out from the machine, reverberating off the walls of my tiny studio apartment.

Maybe it was the evening of learning the difference between a .45 and .40 caliber weapon. Maybe it was the fact that last summer’s run-in with Miss Homicide was still just a little too fresh in my mind. Or maybe it was just my overactive imagination at work.

But my mind instantly hit on the source of the sound. A gunshot.

The machine clicked over.

Beep.
“End of messages.”

Chapter Two

I stared at the phone, my breath lodged in my throat as my heart threatened to pound out of my rib cage. My body immediately remembered the last time I’d heard a gun go off—when it had been aimed at me!—and I went into panic mode. I grabbed the phone and dialed the first number I could think of. Ramirez.

It rang three times. Then I got his voice mail. Damn. I tried to calm my breathing as I waited for the beep.

“It’s Maddie. I think I’ve just been ear witness to another murder. My dad was shot. Not Faux Dad, the real dad. The hairy one. He got shot. Or he shot someone. I don’t know which. But there was definitely a gunshot and he was definitely there and he needed my help and now I think someone’s dead. Or dying. Or probably at least wounded. Call me.”

I hung up wishing I didn’t automatically go into blabber mode when crisis hit. Why couldn’t I be one of those calm, cool-headed women who could make a tourniquet out of a tampon and a gum wrapper? Instead I had to freak out like a little kid lost at the mall.

I dialed Mom’s number. It rang four times and the machine kicked on. “Hi, you’ve reached Betty…”

“…and Ralph,” my stepfather chimed in.

“We’re not here right now, so leave a number at the beep…”

“…or try us at the salon. Ciao!” Faux Dad finished.

I hung up. When Ramirez got my blabbering message he’d probably roll his eyes and make some comment about how girly I was. That, I could live with. Mom, on the other hand, would likely call in the National Guard to make sure I was okay. Which, in all honesty, I was.

It was the guy on the other end of the line who was in trouble.

My dad.

I sat down on my futon, absently shoving a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as I conjured up the image of that hairy arm waving goodbye from the El Camino window.

When I was deep in my teenage-angst phase I’d badgered my mom into talking about my father. Just once. She said they’d met at a Bob Dylan concert, that he was 6′1″, allergic to strawberries, and had run off to Vegas with some showgirl named Lola. When she got to the Lola part she broke down sobbing, the kind of racking tears that scared the crap out of my teenaged self. Needless to say, I hadn’t broached the subject since, and she hadn’t offered.

I wondered if he was still in Vegas. I grabbed the handset and scrolled down my call log. Out of area. Well, that didn’t tell me much. He could have been calling from anywhere.

And what kind of help did he need? Was he sick? Did he need a kidney? It would be just like a man to waltz back into my life after twenty-six years and ask for a vital organ.

Only he hadn’t sounded sick. He’d sounded…in trouble. In serious trouble, if that really was a gunshot. I tried not to picture him wounded or bleeding somewhere.

Maybe I should call 911. But what would I tell them? Someone somewhere might have been shot? I had no idea where he was, or even if it was, in fact, my father calling. I’d gotten more than one crank phone call since my brush with fame. And to be honest, the more I thought about it, the less sure I was that the sound was even an actual gunshot. Maybe it was just a car backfiring?

I shoved another big scoop of Chunky Monkey into my mouth, hoping that the creamy chocolate and banana goodness might calm me down.

Maybe it was a backfiring car and maybe it was a gunshot. Either way, my dad had called me. And first thing in the morning, it was time to take the crowbar to Mom’s memory again.

I was in the depths of a dream about being chased by a backfiring car driven by a one-eyed woman when the sound of my phone ringing woke me up. I halfheartedly grasped around in the general region of the handset but came up empty. I cracked one eye open to peek at the clock beside my bed. Seven
A.M.
I groaned. I hated morning people. My theory: If the malls don’t open until ten, what’s the point of being up earlier than that?

The phone rang two more times, then clicked over to the machine. I buried my head under my pillow as I listened to my own voice inform callers to leave a message. The machine beeped.

“Maddie? It’s Jack.”

I bolted upright in bed, flinging the pillow across the room. Ramirez.

“I got your message last night. What the hell is going on over there?”

I jumped out of bed, diving for the phone. Only the handset wasn’t on the cradle. I glanced around my studio apartment. Fold-out futon on one wall, drawing table against the other, piles of clothes and shoes everywhere else. Where was the phone?

“What’s all this about a gunshot? Are you okay?” He paused. “Look, I may be a little hard to get a hold of for the next few days, so if you’re there, pick up.”

I was trying to! I began digging under my clothes from the night before. I slipped my hands down in the futon cushions, checked under my drawing table, even started opening kitchen drawers. Where the hell had I put the thing?

Ramirez paused. “Well, I guess you’re not there. Fine. I’ll try back later.”

“No!” I screamed at him. Then I spied the handset peeking out of a Macy’s bag by the door. “Wait, wait, wait,” I chanted. I grabbed the handset and hit the
on
button.

Dial tone.

Crap.

I quickly redialed his number but wasn’t surprised to hear it go straight to voice mail again. Crap, crap, crap! I slammed the handset down in the cradle, taking out all my aggression on the poor GE appliance.

Since I was up anyway, I made a pot of strong coffee and hit the shower, doing a blow-dry and mousse thing afterward. As a concession to the pint of B&J’s I had single-handedly consumed the night before, I pulled on a comfortable pair of navy blue gaucho pants, paired with a tank top, navy shrug and knee-high brown calfskin boots. Overall, a pretty decent look for a breezy October day. Breezy translating to seventy-five and sunny, instead of the summer’s eighty-five and sunny forecast. We don’t believe in weather in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.