Spying in High Heels (13 page)

I pulled out of the Denny's and drove down Van Nuys, following her directions until we pulled up to a brick building with a blue neon sign above the door, blinking the word "Mulligan's." A steady stream of people in business-casual attire filtered through the door. I looked down at my spandex, silently making bets on how many propositions I'd get before the day was out.

The lot was packed, so I found a place on the street and after reluctantly feeding the meter, Dana and I emerged into the dimly lit interior of Mulligan's. I recoiled as the sounds of bad Karaoke echoed from a small stage in the corner, where a pudgy, middle-aged man belted out a Shania Twain song.

Dana immediately ordered two vodka martinis with extra olives from her bartending friend, a Bruce Lee lookalike dressed all in black. If any day of my life ever called for a martini, today was it. However, counting selfless act number two, I promptly changed my order to a Diet Coke. Once they arrived, Dana only had time to munch one olive before Bruce Lee grabbed her hand and dragged her over to the Karaoke machine for a duet of "
American Pie
."

I sat at the bar by myself and sipped my Diet Coke. Generally, I'm not much one for the happy-hour crowd. I prefer places where you can actually hear your friends talk, like Starbucks or Nordstrom. For me a night on the town consisted of dinner and a Julia Roberts movie at Citywalk. But something about the loud, crowded, anonymity of Mulligan's was oddly soothing at the moment. Like a huge, badly sung escape from my real life.

My hands were only slightly shaking as I took another sip of my Diet Coke. It really was a poor substitute for a martini.

I was dying to know what was going on back at the motel. Had Ramirez gotten the tip? Was he arresting Greenway right now? I wondered if there was a big shootout with the cops when they arrived. God, I hoped nobody got hurt. Well, I guess I wouldn't mind Metallica taking one in the ass, but I really didn't want anyone to get killed. Least of all me, which is why even though I was dying of curiosity, I made myself stay right where I was and sip my Diet Coke. I'd give it two hours, and then I'd call Ramirez's number again and nonchalantly ask if there'd been any new developments. I would, of course, leave out the part where I gloated about finding Greenway when the whole police force couldn't. Ha, who's girly now?

Dana jostled up beside me, diving for her drink again, and took a long sip. "Ohmigod. I forgot what an awesome singer Liao is." She drained her glass and crunched down hard on an olive. "Come up with us. We're gonna do 'I've Got You, Babe' next."

"No thanks. I'm not really in a singing mood."

Dana cocked her bobbed wig to one side. "Hey, are you okay?"

No, I was not okay. I'd just been shot at!

But Dana had been nice enough to come all the way to the Valley with me, even though I'd almost gotten her killed, so there was no reason to ruin her evening with Bruce Lee.

"I'll be fine," I said. Eventually.

"You sure?"

I fake smiled. "Yeah. Fine. Really."

"Okay. Well, in that case, you wouldn't mind driving home alone, would you? See, Liao's house-sitting for this guy in the hills and he says he's got a hot tub that looks out over the Hollywood sign."

I looked down at her outfit. I hoped the invitation didn't have anything to do with the miniskirt. Then again, knowing Dana, she probably hoped it did.

"Yeah, go. I'm fine."

"Cool. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll read all about the arrest over bagels." She gave me a co-conspiratorial wink before disappearing back into the ever-growing mob of happy-hour patrons.

Right. The arrest. I just hoped there was one. Again I got that itch to see what was going on at the motel. Was Greenway in custody? If he was, I was sure Perky Reporter Woman would be singing all about it on the evening edition. If Richard saw news of the all-clear, he might even be back in his condo tonight. I took another sip of my Diet Coke, wondering just how I felt about that.

Now that Cinderella was in the picture, I wasn't a hundred percent sure I knew how things stood between Richard and me anymore. I mean, of course I was pissed at him; he was married to a freaking Disney princess. But, as I'd learned from Mrs. Rosenblatt's parade of husbands, there were all kinds of marriage. Maybe they were separated, estranged. So what then?

And, to make matters worse, I couldn't stop thinking about that heated panty thing that Ramirez seemed to inspire in me, which I'm sure was just a bad case of not getting laid in a while, but was a little unnerving all the same.

I took another sip of my Diet Coke, really wishing it had a higher vodka content. Which was a sad commentary on my life. Fashion designer wannabe yearns to get drunk after being shot at by her lying, cheating ex-boyfriend's murderous client. While thinking really unwholesome thoughts about annoying, yet oh-so-sexy, homicide detective.

"Excuse me," a voice said behind me, catching the attention of Laio's replacement behind the bar. "I'll have a Coors."

I froze.

Have you ever noticed that some people have a tendency to show up just when you're thinking of them? Mrs. Rosenblatt would undoubtedly say it was the cosmic thread that bound us all together. Personally, I think it's just dumb luck. And my luck seemed to be really bad tonight.

I resisted the urge to slink away into the crowd (because he'd probably find me anyway—after all, he
was
a cop) and turned around to face him.

"Well," Ramirez said, a sly grin creasing his features, "fancy meeting you here."

Chapter Nine

All I could do was stare. Damn, did this guy have a homing device or what?

Ramirez just smiled, casually depositing himself onto the stool beside me as the bartender slid him a bottle of Coors.

"Love the outfit," he said.

"Thanks." I tugged at the hem of my dress, again suddenly very aware of my bunching grannies.

His smile widened, showing off that too-sexy dimple. "Something about a woman in spandex gets me all hot and bothered."

"You're mocking me, aren't you?"

"Just a little."

"It's supposed to be a disguise."

"From whom?"

I paused. "No one."

"Hmm." He studied me, his hands idly picking up a swizzle straw from the bar and drawing little circles with it.

"What?" I asked.

"The wig is a nice touch."

"Real classy, huh?"

"I think I prefer you as a blonde."

I hated that somewhere inside me a pleased little voice screamed,
He likes your hair
!

"So what are you doing here?" I asked, squelching the little voice.

"Working." He fixed me with the kind of stare Superman used when switching on his X-ray vision. "What are
you
doing here?"

I bit my lip. I wasn't sure how much to spill. Worse, I'd told so many versions of the truth lately, I wasn't entirely sure which version I'd last given Ramirez. But considering Greenway was likely on his way to County right now and Richard would be home soon, I figured I didn't have much to lose.

"I was looking for Greenway, but I got shot at, so I needed a drink." I hoped he would just assume there was some rum in my Diet Coke.

"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "Because I like you, and I haven't got time to do all the paperwork, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that shooting thing."

Did he just say he liked me? Damn, that little voice was perking up again.

"Look, Maddie," he continued, "this is a homicide. Bad men with big guns. This is not children's shoes. Don't you think maybe it's time you went home and let the big boys handle this?"

He had a point. I wasn't thrilled about the guys with guns. And getting shot at again was way, way low on my list of to-dos. I'd neglected the Strawberry Shortcake shoes, I'd dragged my best friend into the Valley, I'd very nearly gotten Althea fired, and I was in, of all things, neon spandex. And in all honesty, I had planned on finishing my drink, going straight home and gluing my butt to my futon as I watched for any sign of Greenway's arrest on the news.

But the way Ramirez said "big boys" made my spine straighten, my jaw clench, and my eyes narrow into catlike slits as I flipped my fake hair over one shoulder.

"Listen, 'big boy/ I may have ovaries, but I'm not going to just sit at home and knit while Richard is out there being hunted down by a killer. Even if he is married to Cinderella."

'K—not a good idea to spout off to a cop. Ramirez stared at me, pinning me with his best Bad Cop face. I said a silent prayer that he didn't reach for his cuffs. On any day, spending a night in a County cell wasn't my idea of a good time. And dressed like this, it would probably rank below, on the fun scale, wearing the Purple People Eater down a Milan runway.

Just as I was about to throw myself on the mercy of the law, Ramirez's eyes crinkled at the corners. His lip jerked up.

And then he laughed out loud.

It should have pissed me off, but instead I found my fighting stance fading. Man, he had a great laugh. It was rich and full and totally transformed his face. For a second I got a glimpse of the cover model he could have been in another life.

"Fine," he said, finally recovering. "I'll make you a deal." He leaned in close enough that I could smell his brand of soap. Ivory. I inhaled. I'd always liked that brand.

"What kind of deal?"

His eyes locked on mine and, in a voice that was way too intimate, said, "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Yikes. I hoped he was talking about the case. Okay, well I mostly hoped he was talking about the case. There was one teeny tiny little corner of my brain that flashed on Dana's "animal sex" phrase again.

"What do you want to know?" I squeaked out.

His gaze didn't waver. "Everything."

That covered a lot of ground. I decided to go for the Cliff Notes version. "Okay. I was at Richard's office yesterday and a call came in from Greenway. I traced the call to the Moonlight Inn and my best friend Dana and I dressed as hookers to try to get Greenway's" room number out of the night clerk. Only when we got to the room, someone shot at us, so we bolted."

Both Ramirez's eyebrows headed north this time.

"You traced the call?"

"Okay, I didn't so much trace it as I bribed his receptionist with a manicure to look up the number for me."

"Jesus." He rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"You really are girly."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Hey, it worked, didn't it? I showed you mine, now show me yours. What are
you
doing here?"

Ramirez took another sip of his beer and looked at me. I feared he might renege on his deal.

"Okay. Someone called in an anonymous tip that Devon Greenway was staying at the Moonlight in North Hollywood. We traced the call to your cell number. And I mean traced, as in using technology, not manicures."

My turn to roll my eyes.

"So I sent a couple uniforms to check it out. Imagine my surprise when on my way there, I spot your red Jeep parked on the street."

I ignored the sarcasm. "So did they arrest Green-way?"

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" My voice took on that high, screechy quality again as panic grabbed me by the hair and whipped my head around the room. Suddenly the safe anonymity of Mulligan's felt very much like a room full of strangers. Any one of whom could be wielding a gun.

"
I
mean the motel room was empty. No one was there."

For the second time in as many days I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I wrapped my shaking hands around my glass and downed the last of my Diet Coke. Too quickly. It went down the wrong pipe and I started to choke, quick unproductive coughs that sounded like a hyena in heat. Ramirez smacked me on the back, bringing tears to my eyes as I finally got a hold of myself.

Ramirez just shook his head at me, a little half smirk on his lips as he took another sip of his Coors.

"He was there," I said. "I swear he was there. He called from there yesterday. You can check the call log at Richard's office. We had a long conversation about how Richard calls me Pumpkin."

"Pumpkin?" Ramirez smirked again.

"It's his pet name. I didn't pick it out."

"And Pumpkin was the best he could do?"

"It's cute!" In all honesty, I'd never really liked Pumpkin. It always reminded me of something my grandfather would call me. But I wasn't going to admit that to Ramirez.

"You're more like
afregadita
, if you ask me."

"A what?"

Ramirez smiled. "You figure it out."

I think I hated him.

"You're sure Greenway's not at the motel?"

"If he was, he's gone now. And if he's smart he's on a plane to the Caribbean. I've got a couple CSIs going over the motel now just in case he left a calling card."

I bet my hook-nosed CSI Guy was having a field day lint rolling Metallica.

"You think they'll find anything?"

Ramirez shrugged. "My guess? He's long gone."

Great. Back to square one. Only now I felt this irrational need to look over my shoulder every three seconds for angry gunmen. And Richard was still out there somewhere. Still hiding. Still not returning my calls. Still married to Cinderella.

I seriously needed something stronger than Diet Coke.

"So," Ramirez said, draining his Coors, "now that we're on the same page, it's time for you to go home."

"Will you tell me if they find anything at the motel?"

Ramirez's expression was suddenly serious. "Look, this is a murder investigation. It's not shoe shopping. Go home."

"But—" I opened my mouth to protest, but Ramirez cut me off, laying one hand over mine.

"I've already fished one woman's body out of a swimming pool. I don't want to make it two. Please. Go home."

I froze. Not so much from the warning, but the heat of Ramirez's hand over mine. I gulped, trying to tell myself I wasn't thirteen and this was not some hunky football player.

"I can't just forget about all this." I didn't add, because I may be carrying his child.